Dark Turn
by RickyTang
Summary: Gotham starts to show signs of improvement, but not in the way that Batman wants it. He faces a problem that can only get worse. Escalation will reach a high point. R and R people.
1. Strike

**Strike**

**Salas Complex, Metropolis**

**8:47 p.m November 1 **

Damien Crest walked behind of the podium, cleared his throat, and shuffled through his notes.

"Good evening to you all," was how he started. The audience consisted of at least two hundred or so employees, observers and shareholders, men and women alike, all dressed in a formal manner. Every face in the room was pointed at Damien, beaming over him with smiles that displayed nothing but respect and loyalty. He had finally earned it.

He coughed on his fist to clear his throat again for the second time. "I am so thankful that you all could here with me to celebrate our success. Thank you all for being there, supporting us, and most of all, I want to thank you all for your achievements here at Salas," he said, then read his speech, raising his tone and importing a few jokes so as not to bore his audience. "We here at Salas are now thanks to you all, the largest pharmaceutical in the northern hemisphere." The room soared with applauses. "We have drugstores stationed at almost every critical part of this nation."Then", with bold pride, he added, "And after much more due success, we can and will go so much further. We are saving lives everyday. May we continue for generations to come."

Camera's flashed at the new CEO. A tone of happiness and pride covered the thick walls of the convention. This was a day to remember.

Damien couldn't help but smile over the crowd. 'Just as if they care,' he mused. The night was glorious. He shined bright like an eternal star. Support flew at him in the form of clapping hands, cheers and hollers. All those years of struggling and existing, this almost made it worth it. Damien Crest, elite chemist, newly apointed President of the Salas drug company. His family would have been proud. Their son finally made it in society, finding his place through research and production of countless miraculous drugs that have healed as many as a thousand lives for over five years and counting. Would his family have been proud? Unfortunately he would never see the answer to that question. And at that moment, the crystal glow on his face mutated into a dull frown.

He did his best, his family should have been here. He would have loved to see them smile for this special day, just like all the times he got A's on his report card. The family would have loved to see this; but unfortunately, they never will. They would never be there when their son reaches the peak of his life to congradulate him, smile at him, applause or even comfort him. His older sister Annie would never be there to pester him, he would never be able to see how she would have grown and what kind of person she would have become. Annie said one time that she might have wanted to be a writer, 'and one find writer she would have been.'

"I'll be taking questions now," said Damien bluntly.

One man from among the crowd had a pencil on one hand and a notepad on the other. "Alan West," was his name. "How do you proceed on these claims of monopoly and market domination faced at Salas?" was his question.

"Well Alan I have heard these claims and I must say that they are completely senseless." Damien Crest, the ever aggressive legionnaire. "First of all, let me remind you that this company has been bent on supporting and helping those in need. Our own products and stations have been made to purposely give proper care with lower cost than most our competitors. That is in fact why we've gone so far. Because thanks to all the great researchers we have, we can make our own drugs more effective than others and sell them for an efficient price. And for those who think that we're some "evil corporation looking to rule the world", we have made healthcare donations to several people with financial trouble and need of medical attention."

Then the next question came. "Clark Kent with the Daily Planet. What are your future plans?"

"Well Clark, I don't really think I have much comment on that. We'll just go where the wind takes us and if we don't like that, I'm sure we can just paddle a few steps away." Slight laughter erupted.

And finally the last question from another man much like the first with a piece of note paper and a wooden pencil. "Elbert Young, Headfront News. Have you any plans on putting organizations on Gotham City? There's not one contact to be found there and some are saying that it would really help things."

Gotham City. Its name began to haunt Damien the instant it was mentioned. Gotham City. "We'll see how things work out." The reporter along with crowds expected more from their CEO. That was all they got. At that moment he wrapped up his prescence by saying that he was "thankful once again for everyone being here," and he stormed away from the gleaming stage agitated.

Memories flashed back, his entire body started to itch. Sweat and steam boiled from his head, heat was working its way up his body. He walked almost limping away from the building, slowly losing control of himself. He found a balcony in the back, and parked himself there in hopes of cooling down with the moderate breeze outside. The steam left, but the memories stayed. Tears poured, he couldn't stop himself, and at this point there was no point trying. His pupils blushed red along with his face, creases lined across his cheeks. There was nobody else outside but the wind and Damien Crest. What started out as a magnificent night turned into a moment of despair, all in the name of a simple memory.

"Get up!" the boy screamed at a much older man who was now too weak to pick himself from the cold gravel. The boy had been crying and still was, his father noticed the child's reddening face. There was blood on the boy's shirt, it belonged to the father. The old man struggled to turn his head, but succeeded after only a few seconds. Pain conquered the old man's body, he was losing consciousness. It would have been so easy to close his eyes and rest, but he forced himself awake, fighting the bullet lodged inside his chest.

But there wasn't much strength left inside for him to continue. The hole at his chest was pouring blood on the streets, blood that he needed to survive. There wasn't much he could do now. His mind was painted with drowsiness, the pain began to gain weight, he couldn't carry out much further, he had to let the pain go. The old man faced his son one last time. "Everything is going to be alright. You did good. I love you."

The boy shrieked. "No! No! Get up! Get up don't go!" He didn't stop yelling until he was certain his father was gone. His head swung away, lifeless. The boy was alone now. All that was left of his family was their blood spilled on the merciless streets. His family lied peacefully still on the streets as did their killers. The gift his father gave him, a seven inch toy soldier crumpled into pieces.

Gotham City has ever since been the tombstone of the family of Damien Crest.

**Han Lest Harbor, Gotham City**

**11:33 p.m **

The night was never the best timing for a drug deal. That's why Ricardo Alvaro grew suspicious of his client. And for that reason only he brought all the boys he could muster up in the dead of night. Six men from his side rode in all armed with submachine guns. However, his client James Marshall had brought at least a dozen armed at his side including rooftop snipers overlooking the harbor exterior. He spotted them along with his men on their way to the site, which was inside an old model cruiser bridge docked on the harbor. Ricardo could only hope that his client would not try to shoot him seconds after the deal.

There was enough light to see across the room, but not near enough for anyone to read in. The lightbulbs seemed like they were on the brink of extinction, blinking on and off at certain points. When they were on, anyone who cared to even look would notice winged insects aviating around the light's vicinity.

Acompanying his left hand was a gym bag filled to the rim with cash, and a silver Colt tucked in his pants in case anything was to go wrong.

This was Ricardo's first time visiting Gotham City. His first impression was less than warming. The city suffered from lack of sunlight, and tramps decorated in every slum block caused the walls they leaned on to deteriarate in shape, not to mention polluting the air with body odor. This was nothing like his home country. Upon consideration, Ricardo swore to himself never to set foot to another litter such as this again unless it was for business.

"You got my money friend?" a voice called Ricardo from behind. He turned and saw a relatively bulky man in a grey suit and a wooden brown cigar holstered on his left and middle finger.

"Yes. It is here. All of it," he replied to his client, then dropped the bag on the floor. An unfamiliar man, presumably his clients', moved towards the bag with an assault rifle strapped to his back. He lifted a block of cash towards his face and ran a thumb on the center corner, counting silently in his head.

"Looks good," the man concluded, turning his head to the flashy applicant.

"Excellent," said James. "And now for me to fulfill my end of the bargain." He waved a finger blindly at the air. In response another henchman who stood in the same room for the duration of the deal stepped forward with another gym bag of different color and brand. He unzipped it at the center and revealed a series of at least twelve ziploc bags containing white powderlike substances. "It's all there," James concluded.

Ricardo approached the bag for a closer look. Nobody stopped him, but the dark. Suddenly, everyone in the room heard the noise of shattered glass, and knew immediately what it was when the room went pitch black. "This is a setup!", Ricardo thought aloud. Immediately his men responded by aiming guns at James and his men as they did the same.

"Calm down!" odered James. "It isn't me. Put your guns down." Ricardo refused, so he made the first move. He comanded two of his men to go outside and investigate the matter. The gesture convinced Ricardo to put down his arms.

"What is this?" asked Ricardo.

"It should be nothing. But nevertheless, I suggest you prepare yourselves."

"For what?" inquired Ricardo.

James Marshall let out a deep sigh. 'Obviously nobody has told him.' Nobody bothered to tell him about that mysterious freak hopping around rooftops beating the hell out of his people. Beating them to fulfill it's lust for violence. Beating their kind. Nobody ever told the foreigner what this thing can do to people. He almost felt sorry.

Right then, crackling noises came from outside. And if anybody paid close attention, they would hear one of their comrades screaming off the top of his lungs.

"What the hell is going on!" demanded the now startled Ricardo. "Torico, Jaymes, go check it out," he called to his soldiers.

"No that is not a good idea," interrupted James. "We stick close together until we hear from someone."

Ricardo didn't know what to say. 'It isn't the cops,' and for that he was sure. Cops were always loud in raids. And it would have been a task inacomplishable for cops to infiltrate past those men he saw on the roofs without making so much as a peep. "What is going on?" he peeped.

"Shut up and get quiet," ordered his client, then bent his knees down so his body was in a crouched position. He had a black Glock on hand, holding it close to his chest. His eyes were rolling in constant motion, patrolling for any outside noise. But there was nothing. Just silence and darkness.

Ricardo's heart raced, hyperventilation came as a side effect. It was so dark. There was absolutely nothing the eye could see.

Then without warning came something to see. Light fog emerging from outside, marching slowly into the interior of the ship, emitting a drowsy tone to those who inhaled. Coughing came as an aftermath. Nobody was quiet anymore. Everyone was making more than enough noise one would need to mark their exact position.

It was gas. Somebody threw gas in the room. This meant that somebody was close. Ricardo eyed the windows. Behind one of them was what seemed to be an apparition of some kind. But before he could make any proper sense of it, the image had reached past the glass barrier, causing shards to drop dead on the floor. On arm's length was one of his men reacting to nothing but the poisonous inhalants. It grabbed him by the shoulder and he was pulled out by force before anybody could even react to the broken window.

"Aaah!" he shouted, unable to keep himself stable for a second longer. "I'll kill you!" he declared, and let off a few rounds from his Colt into the ship.

"Don't waste your bullets you moron." The voice, he recognized was James'. However, neither could see each other. The natural dark and that vile gas were the cause to their blindness.

"James," Ricardo called out, but there was no reply. "James," and again no reply.

But then he heard something like a silent yet bold whisper. What haunted him was that he had never heard the voice from anywhere in his life. And above all, it dropped from just behind his left ear.

"Boo," it uttered.

Ricardo widened his eyes. "Aaahhh!" he fired randomly at the dark space, all the while running blindly around until he finally found the exit door and opened it. His legs were sprinting in the direction he had come from, leaving the ship and setting foot on the cold gravel. The men on rooftops he noticed were all incapacitated. Not so much as an open eye was left. There was nobody to help him. Nobody to save him. He was alone, running in the dark.

Abrubtly, his leg seemed to be caught in something. The man tried shaking it off, but instead it pulled his leg up with a force too strong to be overcome. Had he been looking where he stepped on, he would have survived the cat and mouse game just a bit longer. It was a thin wire wrapped tightly around his ankle, forcing it straight up into the dark sky. His body was dragged upside down, blood pressure blushed his face into a strawberry red. He yelled for it to stop in whatever voice he had left. It did, but only ten seconds later. And when the wire ceased, Ricardo caught a perfect look at his tormentor, staring straight back at him with a blank face.

"Hauh!" was all he could muster up in response to what he was seeing. It was a monster. A hideous monster. A half man with human eyes and mouth, and a half creature with a dusky black hull, two horns on the head and long wings on the side of its arm.

Then it whispered. The same voice as on the ship with that same unforgiving tone. "Welcome to my home."


	2. Haunted Memories

**Haunted Memories**

**Crest Residence, Metropolis**

**2:35 a.m November 3**

It was hard to sleep. Not because the blanket was too thick or the pillow wasn't soft enough or the light from the fireplace was bright. In fact the blankets were just fine, pillows had already been fluffed by the maid, the mood was quite soothing when in a dim room resting.

But try as he might, Damien was no closer to being able to shut his eyes than he was an hour ago. His mind was occupied. With that past he remembered so clearly like it was just yesterday. The inner demon circulating deep inside his blood and veins, spreading like a virus. Multiplying. Killing slowly.

He recalled the feelings he had that night. Sadness over his loss, and revenge didn't make him feel an ounce better of anything. All the tragedies were there, still the same, thorns ripping through his skull.

Streetlight poured beams on the child, giving light to him and his father, who now shined like angels as a result of its effect. It was as if they were the only thing that mattered. Beyond the border was nothing but darkness and evil. Criminals, thieves, rapists, murderers, the personification of all of God's seven deadly sins.

"Papa!" he leaned on the bleeding man broken on the ground.

The two men behind laughed voraciously.

The only thing the child could do was shed tears for his family. He was so helpless. His older sister and mother were both gone, all he could do now was watch his father depart him as well.

"I'm so sorry," he told his father.

That did nothing to help matters. In fact it only made things worse. It broke the man's heart to hear his son say those words. If he had only the strength to slap him across the face.

"Son," he said instead. He was too weak to speak sentences, so his messages were short. He tapped on his brown overcoat now painted with blood. "My pocket."

The boy's eyes glanced with ambiguity. Then he slipped a hand lightly under his father's coat. The murderers made no response because they didn't see anything but the boy's back in front of their eyes.

"Cute kid," said one of them, following a mad snicker.

"Oh yeah. We should definitely put this on a wall or something. It's just art man. A dumb kid crying for his daddy," came the other, then mocking the weeping child by rubbing his index fingers across his eyes. "You crying for your dada little kid?" he high pitched his voice, adding more to the insult.

Upon reaching into his father's coat pocket, they boy came across a cold metallic object chilling the tip of his finger. Puzzled, he yanked it free, and his eyes widened in bewilderment. It was a four inch revolver completely loaded.

"Papa", he whispered, trying desperately to keep his breath.

But his father, with whatever energy he had left could only muster up the words, "Be brave. Be brave."

Then the child opened his ears to the murderers. It made him mad, and angry listening to their voices. It fueled his rage.

He turned around and locked eyes with his family's killers. They're faces went stone cold after seeing the child in grip of a gun. Each lifted their cannons at a desperate attempt of self defense. But...

Blam! Blam! Blam!

...It was too late. Not a round went off their guns.

The first one took two shots straight to the heart, ending his life immediately. The second caught a bullet on his gut and fell on a wall, bending his knees trying to support balance.

"Oh shit!" he barked. The boy approached him slowly, taking time in each step. Once he closed in, the murderer pleaded to the boy, begging for pity. There was none.

The boy stared coldly at the man who just killed his family, blunt and emotionless, with the weapon still on hand. He raised it pointing the barrell to the murderer's chest.

"No. Please."

Fear was everywhere. He examined from the man's face. The child wiped the emotion off his face.Instead...

Blam! Blam! Blam!

...His anger took shape in bullets. Pain was what he was dealt, pain was what he played.

Damien Crest killed the men who murdered his family.

He recalled the face perfectly on his mind. Begging for his life like a stray dog. It was supposed to feel good. To pull that trigger. All the fear and confusion was meant to end. His actions were justified, he had done the right thing. But the price of war can make people lose a sense of view. Now nothing made sense. His family was still dead, revenge brought nothing. The child was even further in the dark now, slowly slipping away.


	3. Shaping Up

**Shaping Up**

**Gotham City Police Department, Gotham City **

**11:32 pm November 5**

The roof was icy cold. Barbara told him to wear a heavy jacket to work. He should have listened.

Police commisioner Jim Gordon was shaking slightly, rubbing his hands on shoulders for warmth.

He only recently switched on the stage light that aimed it toward heaven, signaling his dark angel. Like all rooftop stagelights, this was bright and strong enough to beam past the sky. However, unlike all rooftop stagelights in Gotham City, this had a bat emblem mounted on the torch, causing a definitive shape at the center as it lit the night.

'Something like this should have a name,' he mused. After all those years of using it to call his 'friend' and he hadn't even thought of a title yet.

Then he thought of one. 'The Batsignal,' chuckled Jim. 'That's a good one.'

"Been waiting long?" asked Batman.

Gordon flinched. "Jesus."

"Sorry," he apologized.

"No need," replied Jim. "This isn't the first time. I should be getting used to it by now."

"So what do you want?"

"Well. I saw what you did to those guys down at the harbor the other night. Good job, really. It started a lot of racket."

"How?"

"Well there's this lawyer Albert Kints. He's coming in raising all kinds of hell about accessive force and unwarranted intrusion."

"That wouldn't be the first time."

"Yeah I know. Except this guy seems to be getting through to the D.A's. Must be a close friend or something. Either way at most it's just more paper work for me. James Marshall has been a long time kingpin in the business. There's no way he's getting out of this."

"And that foreigner he was dealing with?"

"Alvarez?" That guy's going to be tried back at his home country, although I bet he'll come out fee. He's big down there, and drug fuels their economy. To them it's practically another market."

"Shame."

"Well I can't complain too much. James is bigger in the business, and we caught him. And besides, you win some and you lose some."

"Right. Was that it?"

Jim scratched his skull. "Not completely."

"What else?"

"Well we got James to start talking. He's given us dates for next shipments and a lot of associate drug deals. We're going to go in pretty heavy. This is exactly the kind of break we need."

"Need help?"

"No actually. In fact I think it would be best if you sit this one out. It's not that I don't appreciate the help or anything, it's just public image. By making these busts ourselves we'd be telling the people that the police can be relied on again. It'll help us long term, and it'll make the people think we are actually competent."

Batman nodded once in understanding. "Fair enough."

Now there was nothing left to do but part ways. Batman placed a foot on the rooftop ledge and prepared himself to leave. He glanced at Jim, noticed the policeman shivering in response to the cold climate, with hands on his shoulders. It reminded him of what an old mentor once said.

"Rub your chest. The hands will take care of themselves."

"Right," and he obeyed. "Thanks." Then police commisioner Jim Gordon watched his ally drop into the night.


	4. Reconciliation

**Reconciliation**

**Salas Complex, Metropolis **

**2:21 p.m November 7**

Damien arrived at the board meeting late for the first time ever. Everybody in the room eyed him with suspicion as he walked past them at such an unseemly hour to take any seat that was available.

Josef had already begun his presentation on Salas' future plans. One of the few participants passed down a spare document that supplemented the presentation.

"So far our company has done without problems to improve medical care for cities to states. And on top of that we're actually making a profit. Stocks are flowing through the roof."

Damien offered a free ear, listening to whatever their employee had to say all the more anticipating where he was going with it.

"One of the propositions is to survey for now, more along the places we haven't franchised, places that are in slums that could use our products. There's a lot of profit to be made there. My ideas so far are in Tantra Bay, Ellesworth, and Gotham City."

They all heard that last word ring clear in their ears. Everyone was delighted by the idea, some even letting out a round of applause. But Damien had something else to say on the matter.

"Excuse me?" he objected.

Josef, puzzled by the desponded interruption, explained himself. "Well, we have had countless requests from investors for a franchise at the least in these desperate places, especially Gotham."

"I'm not so sure we have the funds or spare time at the moment to make such a survey on three places simultaneously. Ellesworth and Tantra might be able to work out, but not Gotham."

"But sir. We have the necces…" but he was cut off.

"I prefer not to take any unneeded risks at the moment."

The statement brought even more confusion to Josef. "But sir wasn't the decision already made by the board?"

Damien sat in disbelief. "What?"

Realizing the meeting turned sour, senior board member Paul Ducatti stood from his chair and called for Damien to "Calm down."

But he didn't. He couldn't. Already the board was turning against him. They made the decision without his consent, knowing perfectly well how he would have responded to Gotham City. Not so long ago these people seemed like friends to him. Now, turncoats.

"You made this decision without me?" questioned Damien.

Instead of answering the question, Paul moved on to justify the action. "We've got major investors from all over the streets just waiting to get a share of our accomplishments. In the end my friend, there is nothing to lose and everything to gain."

"No no no no. I will not approve of this! I will not have my work destroyed by insolent criminals!" Words could not describe how Damien felt at the moment. He felt like tearing the walls down, firing every single human being in the room. They all looked at him dazed, as if he had gone mad.

But Paul rivaled the man vocally, telling him that, "We are going in. With or without you."

Momentarily, the room fell silent. Every warm blooded mammal sat quietly in discomfort.

Before long, Paul broke the silence. "Look Damien," he said in a calming tone of regret. "We want you to go down to Gotham and meet with people there. People who represent the city. We want you to survey it, to make sure it's safe for us. We want to show you that everything will go right down there."

The room fell haunted with silence again. Paul was still awaiting response.

And after half a minute, Damien decided to give that response. He picked himself up from the chair and left the building. That was his answer.

**Lonas Shooting Gallery, Metropolis **

**7:30 p.m **

The range was empty. It seemed apparent then that nobody goes shooting at seven in the evening here at Metropolis.

But Damien would always come here to relieve the workday stress. He needed it, especially today.

This time he practiced with a different weapon. Instead of the causal Heckler and Koch, he decided to try out the critically acclaimed Desert Eagle.

He held the sidearm with both hands tightened on the grip. He had to be careful when handling such a heavy cannon. They say that the Desert Eagle is a weapon to be used only by proffessionals. In the hands of a rookie, the vigorous cockback could force enough brute strength to dislocate or even break a shoulder.

His eyes were locked onto the black and white silhouette of a standing male, torso to head; finger pulled the trigger after the mind's consent. The cockback threw his hands backwards with divine tenacity, causing him to have to re aim after every shot. But Damien grew to love his gun. It was a friend that meant power in every pull of the trigger, exerting a fierce warcry and a lethal 9MM pill. 80 of his bullets tore a hole though the target's head. The last 20 hit either the target's torso or the wall behind it.

Before realizing, Damien had already emptied five magazines into his imaginary foe. He felt proud, ready to take it to the next level.

Now he held the weapon one handed with his writing hand. He bent his elbow slightly so as to follow the gun's response rather than fight with it. He took three sharp breaths...and fired.

The force pulled his hand back further and much stronger than before. The power was incomprehensible, but it sacrificed speed. It took at least seven seconds to ride the gun's response, shift back to clear aim, and shoot.

"Sir!" a woman called Damien from behind, trying to topple her voice on top of the gunfire.

She had to call twice to catch his attention. Once she did, the CEO halted and dropped his gun down. "What?" he asked, displaying no concern or emotion.

"Mr. Paul Ducatti was wondering where you were."

Damien sighed. "And now he knows." He turned around to see a blonde woman in her midtwenties wearing a buisness suit. It was Dina, his personal secretary.

Dina bent her head down pointing to the ground trying to conceal her face as if somehow in shame. "We all understand what you're going through, and how uncomfortable it would feel, going back there. Especially since your family..."

But she was cut off. "My family? Did I tell you about that?"

She looked up at her boss, and clarified,"Umm, no. But it's true isn't it? Word like that gets passed around relatively fast. Everybody knows about it."

But that was the one thing he didn't know. That of all the topics his coworkers talked about behind his back, the death of his family was the most admired. But the only direction the discussion ever lead to was whether or not he was fit to lead.

"What's your point?" the CEO nearly yelled.

Dina cleared her throat and stammered nervously. She was never quite able to compose herself in times of confrontation. Anxiety always seemed to build up, and she would just stand frozen, trying at best to speak without slurring. "Well...I...I...well."

At that moment Damien felt sorry for raising his voice at her. She was sensitive to such a thing, he remembered. Besides, she was a competent employee, it wasn't her fault that the board members were greedy pigs. She of all people didn't deserve this.

"Forget it Dina", he finally said, and walked towards the exit doors unaccompanied.

But she hadn't told him what she wanted to say. "Wait, sir." She kicked her heels, and speedwalked towards her boss and turned around when she was in front of him, blocking his path.

"Sir I just want to say that I think you should consider. It might be a good idea."

But Damien already had his mind set. "I don't have time for this," he concluded, and motioned to walk around her, but as he took a step, she blocked him again placing herself in front of his field of vision.

Frustrated, the man demanded, "What is it Dina?"

"Sir. It's just that I think it would really help your public image if..."

"Public image is none of my concern," interrupted Damien in a disgusted tone.

Dina insisted. "But it will help people, it'll be good for the market. Medical bills could be lower in Gotham City. People won't die so often and it would be giving a lot of jobs. Believe me please it will really be a good thing." Her eyes rose full of gleam and hope. Like a child pleading for a bright star.

Helping people. That was her real dream. It's the first thing she told her boss during the day of her interview. It's why she chose to work at Salas instead of any other multimillion dollar corporation. She believed that Salas, the company Damien brought through the roof, was a noble cause. She believed in the company and what it was trying to do for people.

"You're a good person," Dina continued. "You've helped people, and you should continue regardless of anything bad that's happened in your past."

Damien couldn't stand hearing her speak that way. He wanted to leave, the door was so close. But looking at him, she made him stay. And now he was dealt with conflict. Will he go to Gotham? Is there a point? Can he forgive? Will he return to the corrupt city that is his family's tomb?


	5. First Laugh

**First Laugh**

**Wayne Manor, Gotham City**

**6:32 p.m November 9**

November always meant a cold night for Gotham City. Street poles caught the algid climate forming a barrier of oxygen trapped on its exterior. Passerbys exhaled warm carbon contradicting with the wind, letting out a dragon's breath from their mouths.

The cave caught influence. From every manmade invention present to the sturdy lifeless rocks to the air and the school of bats creeping up on the hidden ceiling.

Bruce sat alone on an empty wooden chair that he placed personally in the dark cavity, covered in his daywear underneath and a thick blanket comforter on top.

The cave was a hole hidden underneath the body of Wayne Manor. It was his home, much like Wayne Manor was the house of his father. Bruce found comfort in his refuge of isolation, much more than he could ever have from the Manor above. His father's house.

There was a certain similitude between Bruce and Wayne Manor. On the outside, they both had it all. The inviting sparkle called wealth that was suggestive of social accomodation, and company from the upper class crowd. Celebrities, buisnessmen to crooked politicians look upon them with eyes of shallow desire, smiling with empty faces. And one, like the other, was stalked by lust and selfishness, the people who considered themselves friends were nothing more than thieves wrestling each other for a ladder to see the top of the world. Greed. The defining trait of human society.

Wayne Manor and its current tenant also had one thing in common. A secret. One that only few knew of. What seemed to be a clear bright star in the spotless night was rather a shattered soul finding its path with a broken wing, blind and overcome with ambiguities. Everything changed within a matter of seconds. They lost a road only to find a new one along the way. The dark. It brought them love after their loss, and displayed unconditional affection. It consumed them, cherished and cared for them long after light had abandonned them as an orphaned child. Bruce and his father's manor had grown roots in the soil of dark.

Waterfall atop hid a side hole in the cave. The Batman used this as a means of entering and leaving. It was the perfect cover. From the outside it would have seemed that there was nothing beneath the fall. Water made that illusion. And whenever the Batman wanted to get past, all he had to do was ram his Tumbler through the water gate.

But this wasn't the night. This was the night where he "sat out" as Jim Gordon had put it. Now it was time to let the police do their work alone, and watch from the shadows to see if they're finally ready. Too see if the queen that is Gotham no longer needed her loyal dark knight.

One day, when they're ready, Batman would no longer be called for. Nobody will mention his name, mass crime will be a thing of the past. There will be no more pain and suffering, only recovery and hope. That day will come eventually, when a city can stand on its own. And when that day comes, the Batman will go back to his cave never to return again. His legacy will die, forgotten. His image will be nothing more than a myth. And Gotham will live.

Footsteps echoed through the cave, a wrinkled old man dressed neatly in a tuxedo came to clear view.

"How are you this time of night master Bruce?" he asked, wearing a dauntless smile across his frail cheeks. His hands were occupied with a rich twenty first century silver tray. Housed on top were a pair of knives and forks, and on the center was a plate of smoked salmon with couliflowers neat on the side.

"I'm not hungry Alfred," the millionare replied, disinterested.

But the elder butler refused to let down. "Master Bruce are you implying that I went up to that kitchen and cooked this all for nothing?" he inquired like an intolerant mother telling her son to finish off his vegetables.

Bruce didn't respond. Instead he sat quietly with himself, mind wandering.

After a few seconds, the butler grew unsure of what to do. Master Bruce liked to stick to himself at certain occasions whenever at the cave, occupying himself with a crime case. But this time he felt much too distant than usual. There were no cases to be burdened with at the moment. This night was supposed to be his off day. But that was probably just it. So upon concern, he decided to ask his former ward. His hands reeled in an empty chair located in the cave itself, and he took a seat in front of Master Bruce.

"What's the matter Master Bruce?"

It took several seconds to hear a reply. And when there was one, it was statement of denial.

"Nothing Alfred. I just feel like being alone right now."

But still he refused to back down, even more worried this time at what could possibly be troubling the child. "Your'e not such a great liar you know", he informed.

Bruce wasn't quite sure how he would put it into words. "Alfred...How long do you think this will go on?"

He knew the answer to that, they both did. The puzzling part was why Master Wayne would even have to ask. Nevertheless, he reminded him. "For as long as it takes." There was no reply. Alfred began to feel uncomfortable with the eerie silence. "Well Master Bruce just call if you need anything. I'll be upstairs in the study." He picked himself up and put the chair back where it was last found. But as he was about to leave, the master finally gave hint of what had been troubling him.

"Do you believe in destiny?" he asked, still seated, moving not an inch.

That was when everything zoomed into focus.

"I don't know Master Wayne," he answered before setting another foot away from the dark. Do you believe in destiny? His smile was butchered instantenously.

The study room was relatively large. Every corner of the wall had a book case in front, and the lightbulbs in place were purposely made extra bright so as to allow for more comfortable reading. There were only two windows in the room, and both faced the exteriors of Gotham City. Every night, when the police required special assistance, their calling signal could be seen from the windows, monumental and vivid. That was when Bruce Wayne would dissapear, and the Batman was unleashed.

Alfred managed to get himself lost in a book, but not for long. Do you believe in destiny? His concentration had come to an abrupt end. Could he believe in destiny? Is it possible for anybody to believe that the death of their parents was a course of destiny?

Then the spotlight hit clear on one of the windows. Alfred dropped the book that layed in his hands. Batman was called for, Gotham needed him, again. He thought of calling Bruce, knew he would eventually. But now all he could bring himself to do was look at it. The symbol of his father's son. Everything he had gone through to become.

Is this destiny?

**Gotham City Police Department, Gotham City**

**6:42 p.m **

Detective Frederick Havington couldn't stop his body from making involuntary shivers. This was possibly the worst time to ever be caught standing outside with less than two layers of clothing. "C'mon c'mon, where the hell are you?" he tuned to himself.

"I'm here," came a silent reply.

"Ogh!", Havington flitched and turned around. He was about to say something, but anxiety came first. He had never seen the Batman before, everybody claimed that he was some kind of ghost or something. Criminals couldn't catch him, and neither could the police for that matter. It was awkward. The one man they had been chasing down was now standing alongside them, visible.

"Who are you?"

Havington thought and rethought about the words that would escape his mouth. 'How do you talk to a Batman?' was the thing he was stuck on.

"Havvvv... Havvingttttonton," he tried his best.

"What do you want?" Batman grew tempered. "Where's Gordon?"

Havington forced himself to calm down, tried to act proffessional. "Gordon's busy. In the middle of a sting operation. He tttold me to call you up."

"About what?"

Instead of having to say anything, there was a light brown folder on his hand that would do all the talking for itself. He passed it slowly to Batman. The dark knight snatched it off his hand and made a few glances at it's content.

"Again," he whispered to himself with dissapointment upon gathering the information.

The detective drew a fresh breath of air, then returned his eyes to Batman. But to surprise, his guest had already left. He was alone on the roof again, as if nothing had ever happened. As if he had been talking to a ghost.

**Romano's Eatery, Gotham City **

**7:02 p.m **

His real name is Jack Napier. People called him the Joker. He likes to kill. Everything is a joke to him, hence the name.

The gun on his hands was a 1940 M1A1 Thompson submachine gun, the one gangsters use in the movies. He walked in the diner looking for people to share his new toy with. There were twelve people inside. "Get down my puuuurreeeties!" was his demand after clipping an entire round in the ceiling.

People fell down on the ground. Screams were all you could hear, aside from that haunting boisterous laugh of amusement by the Joker.

"I'm so happy", he sung aloud, dancing across the diner. The hostages made no attempt for the door.

"Oh so happy. I'm so happy, la la la, with pride!" A female brunette thirty years of age wearing high heels and a mini skirt raced from the gound to the door. If it weren't for the heels, she might have had a chance. But the clicks of her footsteps rang like churchbells in the ears of the Joker.

"Ah ah! Oh no you don't!" he asserted, and a school of bullets shot into her body proved his point. "What's the matter people?" he looked into the terrified eyes of his remaining victims. "Don't wanna play?" he came with a sarcastic tone of gloom, forming an exagerrated frown on his face. "Am I not good enough? Well I'm sorry I couldn't bring my happy gas with me, I just didn't have the time right now."

Not one soul dared to look up at the hideous man. His skin was cream white, save for a high pitched red around his lips. He was clad in his usual uniform, which consisted of a dark purple suit, orange shirt underneath, a tie, and black shoes.

Then he thought of a great idea. "C'mon you people," the Joker commanded, grabbing two of the eleven remaining people alive by their arms. They each had a river of tears flowing through their eyes, one was a male in his early twenties, the other was a female in her late thirties. "Okay," he ran fingers down his pants and pulled out a .357 magnum. "Here you go," he handed the gun to the woman, suspecting no chance of cheating. They were much too afraid to be doing that. After she picked it up, the Joker placed himself right behind the woman, raising her trigger hand to the man's head. "Okay, now all I want you to do, is shoot," he told her, pacing each of his words so she could hear them.

She couldn't do it. Her hands shivered, and there was no way she would bring herself to kill a man. "No, no, no," she pleaded, weeping at the same time. "No please, don't I don't wanna kill him."

Perhaps the game wasn't made clear. So the host explained. "The rules are, if you don't kill him, I will kill both of you."

But still she shook her head in refusal. "No no. Oh God I can't do this. Please, don't," she slurred incoherently, the frown and excitement turned her words into random gibberish.

Either way the man was going to die. "Do it, it's okay," he mumbled, sheeding tears of his own. "It's okay, this way you get to live." In his eyes, there was a chance.

She refused several times, but the man reassured her. "It's okay."

Then the Joker interrupted. "You see? He says it's okay. Now everyone is happy."

The woman tightened on the grip. "Oh God you asshole." She closed her eyes so she wouldn't have to see herself commit the crime.

Joker whispered onto her ears. "That's it, pull. Pull the trigger."

She would have. A man's death would have been in her hands. But the hero never allows such a thing.

The only lightbulb in the entire diner had just mysteriously broken into pieces. And so did one of the window glasses. The woman panicked and made an attempt to turn the gun on her captor, but she had the disadvantage of having to turn around, while as the Joker behind needed only to raise his gun and fire. And the game would have lost its fun. Instead he snatched the gun off her hands and threw her down. The night light was the only thing at the moment that kept him from blindness. With that advantage, he looked to inspect the cause of interruption, but he had already known the answer. A tiny yet lethal sharp projectile the shape of a bat lying on the ground only confirmed it.

"Ho ho ho. Looks like the Batman wants to play."

**Outside** **Romano's Eatery, Gotham City **

**7:05 p.m **

The Joker had escaped from Arkham, again. The document said three hours ago. And now police got a call of his whereabouts. Romano's Eatery not too far from the department. Problem is, all the special units were out with Gordan making the bust of their lives. And the Joker is not someone you underestimate. Patrol cops would only end up in bodybags. That's why he called the Batman to take the enemy alone.

The light's went out, now came the hard part.

**Romano's Eatery, Gotham City**

**7:07 p.m **

The caped crusader was making his own rules. The Joker admired that. Always willing to play along, all the more making the game more exciting.

"Where are you my friend? Miss me already?"

Suddenly, the front door opened loud, following a creeking noise. The Joker turned to it, but nobody was there. The civilians were still down on the ground, several feet away from the door, it wasn't them. But it wasn't the gust of wind that had blown by just seconds a go.

Then one of the hostages told him where the Batman was. Involuntarily ofcourse. All he did was look into her face, and the dark knight's reflection glistened in her eyes, behind the Joker.

But the Joker made a quick check, and he wasn't there. Then he decided to kill one of his captives to call him out. He aimed the revolver at her skull, took a few seconds, and...

Darkness dropped on him from the ceiling, causing a loss of aim, and eventually, a missfire. He tried to fight it off with his hands, a gun would have been of no worth at such close proximity, but darkness was too quick. The Joker threw fists at the air, then suffered several blows on the head. Any normal person would have gone unconscious, but he mustered enough strength to at least make a sprint out the diner. It wasn't going to end there.

Darkness pursued him, needing not to try hard, for the Joker was limping weak on one leg, bleeding slightly on the head due to all the punches he encountered. Once close, Darkness pounced at him, dropping him down, with the enemy on top. Now all he could do was take another round of massive beating.

Batman wasn't quite sure how he wanted to end this. He was enraged at the corpse at the diner, at how this maniac took everything she's ever had, everything she's ever going to have, and smile about it. And this wasn't the first of them. Too many innocents have died in his hands. Too many. There was one answer to end it all. It was the only answer. But it would betray everything he fought for. All the things that define justice. The things made Batman who he is. But that didn't matter at the moment. This was the only way to solve that neverending problem. There was no multiple choice. Don't stop, keep socking the head. Eventually, the answer will be there.

And he would have gone there. Another gateway would have opened itself to him. It would have made sense, had destiny not intervened.

A rifle round soared from above the sky down into the dark knight's heart. If it weren't for his kevlar biweave, that shot would have gone in. The force of the bullet threw him clashing to the ground. Immediately, Batman stopped, and retreated. Someone shot at him, but it wasn't clear who. It could have been from one of the surrounding buildings, or rooftops. The bullet bounced from his body and fell down on the ground, all he felt was a pinch. He picked up the round and fled the scene, avoiding any invitation for another shot. Whoever the shooter was, he or she was a proffesional. Now might not have been the best time for an open confrontation. Joker used the opportunity to get up and walk away. Again. But Batman was saved from doing something he would later regret.


	6. New Comers

**New Comers**

**Gotham City **

**3:05 p.m November 11**

He felt sure now, after finally agreeing to pay a long due visit to Gotham City. Dina was the only reason for that. If it weren't for her, he would have lost his new earned position. Because as he said, public image was none of his concern. He would have lost influence from the board, and seemed unfit to stabilize the coorporation. But he didn't care. Damien did it for Dina, and for whatever ounce of good that might still be in Gotham City.

They were in a private company plane making pass Gotham airs approaching a landing zone at the airport.

"We'll be there in just a few twenty minutes," assured the pilot over his speaker. The only guests were Damien Crest and his personal secretary Dina Willis.

She sat in front of him, their seats aligned facing each other. Damien looked at her. She was beatiful. But despite what others in the company might have thought, that wasn't the way he saw her. Just because he noticed her didn't mean he wanted to do anything about it. Damien Crest has lived his entire life single, he preferred the isolation. Or was it that there was nobody who he could relate to? Dina was an assistant to him, at most even a friend, but he didn't want his relation with her to escalate more than that. And besides, she was happily married.

Damien gave her a sarcastic grin. When she looked up, he remarked, "This. This is all your fault."

She giggled slightly. He joined in.

"Sir," she then said. "I'm really glad you decided to come through with this."

"Aw, it's nothing. I'll manage," replied Damien, still flashing a light smile. "So, how's the husband?"

"Oh, he's doing alright. A bit sad that I had to leave on such short notice, but he'll be doing fine."

They met once at a company function. But he could never get the name right. 'Was it Terrance or Todd?' He had short brown hair the last time they met, and was relatively tall in height. Fit build, works out regularly, a happy guy. He loved his wife, he made that clear everytime someone introduced him, sometimes at the price of her embarrassment. 'What was it he called her? Poochie bear?

He couldn't stop himself. A blaring laughter escaped his mouth, roaring, seeing no end.

"What? What is it?"

"Does he miss his poochie bear?"

She blushed almost immediately. Her face mutated red in a matter of half a second. "Shut up," she demanded, yet smiling herself. But the millionaire continued laughing away, nothing could stop him now. She smacked him on the kneecap, but ended up laughing with him. The pilot called out something from the speaker, but it was barely audible.

"What did he just say?"

"Oh he just said we'll be landing pretty soon," recalled Dina.

"So, who are we expected to meet first when we land?"

The secretary flipped open her black folder and searched the mass of papers, guiding a finger around each document she came across for closer observation. "Uuuumm, here," her finger stopped. "After the port, our driver will pick us up and drive us down to the Gotham City Police Station. That's the first thing. Then you're meeting with the governor's office, he's scheduled a dinner for the evening."

Today was going to be no rest. A busy schedule up ahead, by the time they get to the hotel it'll already be a predicted two in the morning. And that next day was'nt exactly going to be a bundle of joy either. There was going to be a visit to the local hospital, probably even a few arrangements, but nothing guaranteed. Gotham is a greedy crime ring. Salas would probably lose everything. Mob bosses will try to turn things their way, try to make it a monopoly, crush it to piecese. And street thugs will eat whatever's left. Damien was always a realist.

**Gotham City Police Department, Gotham City**

**4:57 p.m **

Now was not the best time for something like this. The police already had their hands tied going in after new leads, making drug arrests, both pawns and lords. They've had medium success so far, the one's that really matter end up posting bail, free to roam the streets, again. Now was not the best time for something like this. Jack Napier was out. Escaped from the asylum and managed to kill a few people not even hours after. He's hiding somewhere in the concrete jungle, nobody know's where. That's the worst part. Batman must have missed him the other night, the bastard would've been back at Arkham if he hadn't.

And all the more, some player at the Salas coorporation is planning a visit to Gotham. "Top priority," was what the governor called it, after giving all the blue suits a half hour of sermon on exactly how important this was. No pay would ever be worth all of this.

But fortunately, Commissioner Jim Gordon was never in it for the money. And in this city, that's saying a lot. He'd encountered lots of "propositions" from convicted criminals and crooked politicians over the past years, some that would have easily made him a millionare. But they all learned the same lessons the hard way. Jim Gordon was not for sale. All the good things in the world never are.

The man governor Ellis hailed as Gotham's future hadn't arrived yet. He was stuck in traffic. A few units reported in when escorting him from the plane. This gave time for work.

But another interruption walked past the Gothim Police entrance doors. Governor Ellis Bark himself. It was fairly obvious to everyone that crossed his path what his purpose here was. He didn't want to miss a thing. And he wanted to make sure Jim Gordon didn't screw things up. It wasn't that he didn't like the guy or anything like that. Quite the contrary, Ellis Bark had a lot of faith in Jim Gordon. He was finally doing things right. How they should have been done years ago. But after report of a visit from Damien Crest, the governors been in all kinds of hell. He's gone through sleepless nights trying to make the city look at least managable, especially in the slums. The entire police force was overworked, one could only imagine how he felt. And he was right. Gotham was in desperate need of another entrepeneur, capitalism wasn't doing so strongly in the poor neighborhoods, it's ben especially hard for lower class citizens find legal jobs that paid right. Damien Crest was the kind of person who brought those things. He's been hailed throughout Metropolis and echoing down the entire country. Gotham needs this. Nothing could go wrong. Nobody could afford it.

**Wayne Manor, Gotham City**

**5:22 p.m **

Someone shot at him. Didn't miss either. Whoever it was, he or she was a proffesional. Bruce ran a serial test on the bullet, nothing came up. It was a 9mm, unregistered, bought illegally overseas, could be anybody.

But only a proffesional could blow a 9mm bullet straight at his chest in the dead of night from a distance in only one shot. There might be someone new in town. A new enemy. A criminal looking to climb up the food chain.

"Master Bruce, are you alright?" It was Alfred, as always. Bruce was seated this time in the warmth of the Manor, on the dinner table. He tied his hands together and stared blank at the ceiling. Alfred dropped a dish of spaghetti flavored with basil and alfredo sauce, and a copy of today's current event. He didn't even touch the food, rather scrambling through the newspaper to see if there might be anything interesting at all, anything to get his mind off that night.

There was something on the front page that struck Bruce Wayne with a blow. "Salas CEO Damien Crest makes visit to Gotham City." This was obviously the local newspaper, there would have been more important things happening out in the world for the name of Damien Crest to even come close to front page.

Bruce Wayne had heard of the man before, even admired some of his work. A successful entrepeneur turned CEO of a drug company supplying pharmacies with medicines cheap and even more effective than its competitors. The secret was all in Damien Crest, a genius in the field of chemistry. He lead the team that researched all the drugs, made them better, more resistant against disease. In the end, lives were saved, and the buisness soared through the skies.

He also heard in great detail (like many who at least knew his name) about his dark past in Gotham City. Elret Tom and Joseph Wayle, two worthless thugs charged with double homicide and grand theft auto, killed his mother, father, and elder sister. That much Bruce had in simmilar with Damien Crest. They both lost a family. But it ended there. He killed the two thugs with his father's gun, that's where they parted ways.

But who could blame the child. He did what anyone not held up in fear would have done. It was merely self defense, with no drawback besides the granted taste of revenge.

Buce would have tasted it himself. He wanted it back then, nothing would have pleased him more. But it wouldn't change anything, this he grew to accept. It would have been his father's dying wish. "It's always harder to sustain life than to destroy it," said Thomas Wayne several years ago. Back when he was still alive, and everything was perfect.

"Dad!" the young Bruce Wayne called from out the front yard of Wayne Manor to his father who had occupied himself at the moment reading the news. The yell had little trouble following up to Thomas, as he had run out of the house almost as soon as it was released.

Thomas Wayne ran towards his son who was facing the other way, looking down on the cold ground. He stopped in front, and turned his eyes to whatever it was the boy was focused on.

"Is it going to die?" he asked, seemingly concerned. It was a small pigeon lying down, with its right arm dislocated, blood spewing out slowly but surely.

"It's going to die isn't it?"

But instead of assuring his son, Thomas Wayne rushed back into his study, picked up his medkit, and made it back outside.

"It's not going to die Bruce, don't ever say that," was all he could muster up while unraveling a roll of bandages. "There is always hope."

"It's in pain. If we ended it, the pain would stop," came Bruce without going into much more detail, implying rather than saying what he meant exactly.

His father caught hold of the suggestion, and scoffed. "Never say that", he replied almost scolding. "There is always hope. Always. We cannot quit on any life, whatsoever. There is always hope. Another test."

"Test?" the child could see what little relevance a test had to ending a pigeon's life.

"A test. It's always harder to sustain life than to destroy it. And that's what makes it worth it."

An idea came to Bruce.

"Alfred", he called the butler, who was probably in his room by now.

"Yes Master," came the almost immediate reply.

"Could you call and get a hold of Damien Crest?"

"You mean the one that just arrived today sir?"

"None other. Look see if you can arrange for a function here at the manor, invite all the usual guests, and see if you can get Jim Gordon to join."

"Will do sir."

**Gotham City Police Department, Gotham City**

**6:32 p.m **

All traces of the sun was gone. Now it was dark. And Damien Crest was still not here yet. This stressed the governor greatly, he made routine circles around the building mumbling random rants to himself, stopping only for a drink at the fountain. Where is he? What is taking so long?

But that's when his prayers were finally answered. A young man clad in an Armani's suit walked through the entrance doors, alive and well. A woman in long black pants and blonde hair right behind him stuggled to keep up. She was fiddling around her black hand purse as if looking for something.

"Gotcha," she said almost aloud, raising a chapstick to the air. Ellis paid little attention to her.

"Hello, Mr. Damien Crest," he called the man over and shook his hand for a brief two seconds. "How was your trip here?"

"Don't ask."

'This is bad. It must have been the traffic. That damn Gotham City traffic! It's given a bad first impression. God why didn't those stupid cops do anything about it! Where the hell is Gordon? He must be in his office playing around!'

"I take it that you're governor Ellis?"

"Oh yes. That's me. It's an honor to meet you."

"And where am I to meet the police commisioner?"

'Dammit Gordon. You stupid man. I'm not going to let this fall because of you.' "Oh, he's busy up at the office doing some last minute paperwork. If you follow me." The governor walked ahead of the gang, showing them to the commisioner's office.

Jim Gordon was on the phone. From an image standpoint, it would have looked like he was working at the time. That's what they saw walking into the room. What they heard however...

"Yeah. No. No anchovies. Half of them plain cheese, and the other half with peperroni. That's right. Okay, goodbye." Then he looked up at his door. Three people stood by, none of them embarassed or ashamed, with the exception of governor Ellis.

'Gordon. If you could only read my mind. I will rip your guts in half and tie them into knots!' steamed flew past his ears, but he tried to conceal it by speaking as casual and inagigated as he possibly could. "Hi Gordon. These are our guests. This is Damien. And..."

It occured to Ellis then that he never bothered asking the girl her name at least. 'Ignorant fool,' he exclaimed to himself.

"Dina," she replied.

Gordon raised from his chair to shake both their hands. "Hi, my name is Jim Gordon, I'm sure you've known that by now. I was just ordering some pizza for me and the guys, it's been a busy night. We're gonna be here working this night a little while longer. Please, both of you have a seat," he pointed a hand toward two chairs behind his work desk, which was now stacked with paperwork.

Once they both complied came the million dollar question.

"So, how exactly is the police force doing?"

The police commisioner had already prepared a minor presentation, governor's orders. It was all in a brown file holder. He pulled them out and handed to the guests.

"Well, we've been busy as you can see. Where we are as of now, is in the middle of catching things up."

Damien flipped through the stack of information, dissapointed. "Mr. Gordon.."

"Call me Jim," he interrupted.

"Okay. Jim," Damien tried out. "These arrest statistics are quite lacking in compliance to the amount of criminal activity. This is even worse than it was a few years ago."

Jim placed both hands on the desk, moving them not an inch. "That's because a few years ago we had a breakout in the marrows. We are still in heavy pursuit, and as I said previously, we are only in the middle of things right now. Progress is rising at its pace, we'll just have to wait a little while longer".

That was unacceptable. "Jim. Crime was high enough as it was when I lived here. And now it's gotten worse. You so easily say that things are getting better as if there's not a problem in the world to begin with."

"That is not true," denounced Jim, bringing his legs to standing position. "I know that somehow you think this is all our fault, truth is, maybe it is. But this is the only shot we have of improving things. We do the best with what we have." Then retreated back into his seat. "Mr. Crest, now if you don't mind, I'm busy. If you want, I can get a staff to show you around the place."

But it wasn't necessary. There was nothing else to say. The police commisioner had told him everything he needed to know. Gotham is encouraged with false hope. There are no guarantees or evidence, just blind words. He picked himself up and motioned for Dina to do the same. When she did, he turned to Gordon and replied, "No, thank you that won't be necessary. I'm tired already as it is," and made for the door. But as a hand felt the cold goldcoated knob, he froze. There had been indeed something else to say. And only now did he remember. He turned to Gordon who had already now long forgotten him. "Jim," he called his attention.

The civil servant glanced back up. "Yeah?"

"Do you know of Elret Tom and Joseph Wayle?"

He said nothing, just kept his eyes focused on Damien. Silence in itself answered the question.

Damien explained as if it was the first time anyone had ever heard. "Junkies. Two junkies so hyped up on dope they couldn't tell if it was night or day. They killed my family in a blind alley. Just like that. Everything I knew. Did you know that they killed five people and were let go when police apprehended them one day prior to the death of my family?" No answer. He snickered lightly. "The power of money. It doesn't take much money these days to buy your own cop. This city, the people, everyone in it from junkies down at the slums to even the damn police! Your people are responsible for the death of my mother, father, elder sister. And here you are talking about progression as if one day it will outweigh all the bad. This city needs a drastic change. Innocence is gone. You'd need to torch this hell with kerosene if you want real progress."

Everyone in the room heard the millionare Damien Crest speak out, but none of them could believe his words. Even Dina, had now began to display utmost dissapointment to her boss and friend. She had never heard the man speak in such a harsh and cold manner, never understood that truly underneath, that was who he truly was. Damien caught her eyes, and again started to regret. It would be hard for her to forget.

"I'm sorry," he took back. "I'm just tired." Still, not one soul made a move. Damien, alone, walked out the door. Dina appologized to the governor and police commisioner, then followed her boss.

**Gotham City Police Department, Gotham City **

**7:43 p.m **

Fresh cold air was a good way to help stay awake on the job. Jim took two slices of plain cheese pizza on a plastic plate and carried them with him up to the building rooftop. It wasn't much of a view, the station was no skyscraper. Only thing to see are the surrounding buildings all of which were at least two stories taller.

"How's the night?"

Gordon flinched, again. "Aaah. God. You."

Batman stood a few feet away from him, next to the 'batsignal' which had never been on this night.

"So, how was your first meet with Havington."

"Never do that again."

A chuckle broke out. "That bad huh?"

"I couldn't get Joker."

"Yeah I know. His cell is still empty."

"Someone intervened. A sharpshooter. Sent a bullet at me."

That was bad news an overworked police commisioner could do without. "Did you catch him?"

"No."

"Is he with the Joker?"

"I doubt it. This guy tried to kill me, but offered no other assistance to Joker. Whoever did it's a proffesional."

"How do we get this guy?"

"He or she wants me dead. The shooter will show up again. It won't be that hard. Meanwhile there's the Joker. Going after two different criminals in one night, things will be busy. How have your busts been doing?"

"They're going good. We've arrested a few, soon enough we'll have them talking."

Batman made for the ledge as he always did, preparing for his theatrical exit.

"Wait," called Gordon. "You know Damien Crest. The guy visiting here?"

Batman said nothing.

"Somehow he reminds me Bruce Wayne. What with their family's being killed and all. They were both orphaned at an early age, both rich millionares. Only difference is Damien got to kill his enemies. In some weird way I get the feeling that alters something. We all know Bruce, the happy playboy spending his nights on parties and whatnot. With Damien, it's all different. Nevermind, it's just that I..."

Gunshot! From above! Jim leaned on the closest wall he could find. Instinct reached for his gun, cocked, and scoped for the sniper. He was located on a rooftop west of his viewpoint. The building he presided in was at least two stories taller than the department.

Batman witnessed the gun's flare give light to the sniper as soon as the trigger had been pulled. For only a brief second, he could make out a pair of night vision goggles, green millitary camoflauge suit, blonde hair and blue eyes. He especially caught the eyes. The weapon was a Dragunov sniper rifle, not the same weapon as last time. He probably learned his mistake, coming to realize now that shooting 9mm bullets at Batman was as affective as hurling pebbles.

The sniper realized he had been caught, and decided to make a run for it. 'Not this time.' Batman pounced through the skies, moving at least five times faster than the sniper. There was nothing to do now. His best chance was to turn around and face his enemy.

Batman noticed the Dragunov rifle point slowly towards him. He doubled his speed, and rammed the sniper with his rock hard body before the reticle could even touch him.

The sniper couldn't get himself up. The one they called 'Batman' lassoed the man's legs together with a tiny metal rope.

"Who are you!" the dark knight roared at the sniper.

"Woah, woah man," the sniper overcame a sensation of drowsiness. His head slammed straight at the concrete. "I'm just a proffessional. I work for someone who wants you dead. Oh god please don't."

"Who!"

"I dunno his name, we never do."

"We?" Suddenly another threat was realized. This guy had to be some kind of mercenary of some sort, judging by the marksmanship and green camoflauge outfit. And he was working in a group, someone else is a part of this. But wherever his partners were, the sniper didn't know.

He dragged the sniper by his collar and dropped him down on the police department rooftop.

"Book him," Batman whispered to Gordon who despite standing a few feet away, heard it perfectly. "I'll be here next night. In the meantime try and find out everything you can on this guy."


	7. Tragedy

**Tragedy**

**Wayne Manor, Gotham City **

**7:53 p.m November 13**

The usual guests of Wayne Manor masked themselves in their usual forced smiles. 'Leeches', were all they meant to Bruce. Spoiled brats clinging selfishly onto the things that sustained their pride; money and recognition. The high class crooks of Gotham were no better than any petty thieves. Only difference between the two was that the rich usually found ways of stealing money in legal ways.

"The apple has fallen far from the tree," remarked Bob Kersh blatently at Bruce when he had managed to publicly insult and humiliate all his admired guests a few years ago. And here he was today much like all the others had been over the past years, pretending as if that paticular incident had never happened. Alcohol suffered the blame, and money brought them back. Fortune has always had a way of finding its way back into acceptance.

All the guests had arrived except the one that really mattered. Damien Crest. He must have had a late start.

The Manor kitchen consisted of twelve hired caterers all busy preparing buffet courses, and Alfred was out among the guests serving various wines and appetizers.

Bruce Wayne offered several bits of small talk every here and there, trying not to compel himself too deep in one particular conversation. His eyes shifted to the entrance doors several times in high hopes of being the first to greet Damien Crest to his father's abode. Ten minutes had passed, and only then did he show in a light grey tuxedo, accompanied by a young woman around twenty years of age clad in a sky blue dress and wielding a purse on her arm.

"Oh thank you sir. God I never thought I'd ever live to meet Bruce Wayne," Dina praised her boss. "Have you seen his face in the papers? God he's so handsome!"

Damien forced a grand smile to all the guests who had by now noticed him, and whispered into Dina briefly. "Pipe down just a bit will you? You're starting to sound like a school girl, people can hear you."

"I'm sorry, just a little excited is all."

"Besides, you're married."

Dina blushed. "Well I'm not going to do that," placing an embarrased emphasis on "that".

Bruce Wayne caught her eyes from the large crowd and made his way towards them. She couldn't look away from the millionare playboy host. It was like high school again, trying to impress someone and making yourself known. In that mere second, she had already prepared a list of introductions in her head, but had a debate on which one to use.

"Dina," snapped Damien. She turned focus.

"What is it sir?" she asked, almost as if annoyed.

"Don't talk about me too much alright, I'm not so sure I want all the attention right about now."

"Huh," she mused. "But this whole thing here is for you. That's why we are here in the first place. I hope you can just keep your calm for this particular night sir. Everybody's going to want to talk to you. Are you even alright sir?"

And for no apparent reason at all, Damien crackled out a mad snicker. "Dina," he said. "I'm drunk." That's what happens when you're Damien Crest sulking in a hotel that only has alcohol as antidepressants.

The host had mouthed words by now, most probably wondered what the two had been whispering to each other about. Dina was tempted to utter some words of advice to Damien who would no doubt cause embarrassment, but nothing came up in time.

"Welcome, I'm Bruce Wayne as you might have already heard. It's nice to finally meet you in person," he offered a hand to Crest. They shook, Damien returned the introduction, and Bruce turned to Dina.

"And you might be?"

"Dina," she replied hastily and offered a hand to Bruce who had accepted and bowed his head down to place a kiss. 'A wedding ring,' noted Bruce, his pants would have to stay on for just a little while longer.

He turned back to Damien who was busy at the time eyeing the corners of his father's manor.

"So, how have you found the visit to be so far? See anything interesting?"

Alfred passed by with a tray of wine and made his introductions with the Salas CEO. After greeting, Damien wished him well and snatched a glass. "Well. It's been as expected..." But he stopped himself there. Now was no time for another one of his protests against Gotham City. He promised Dina, and intended on living up to that promise. "It isn't bad so far. Things have shaped up a lot since I left."

Now was a time tempting to Bruce to bring up the death of his parents; their parents. Damien Crest would have seemed a mirror image to Bruce Wayne because of that one shattering tragedy brought upon them. Both witnessed the death of their parents in the bleak alleys of Gotham City. And they lived alone as orphans in a world that became hard to accept. Unfortunately, that was where the simmilarities ended.

"Any sights that you might recomend?" blurted Dina, simply for conversation's sake.

"Oh, there are so many things to see. I should take you guys out sometime."

**Gotham City Police Department, Gotham City**

**9:15 p.m **

"They'll come for me you know," said the sniper before Gordon had him locked up in a vomit infested cell. His name was Inglund Haley, a war veteran turned mercenary. Besides background information, there was nothing on file about any known acomplices, friends or allies, nothing to shed light on who "they" were. Gordon passed the regular work quarters as he made way to his office. Save for three detectives seated on their work desks and four blue coats around the halls, the entire department was empty. All the others would either be at home, working late night patrols, or simply out partying. 'Bruce', said Jim silently. "Damn," aloud. Only now did he remember the party invite. He stretched out his wrist and observed the mounted watch. "Aw what the hell," the sniper case was still under investigation, he didn't feel it right to just up and walk away now, so he took a long hard stretch and worked his usual long hours.

However, the electricity cut out without warning, everything was pitch black. He couldn't see any trace of text written on the paper within his hold. 'A blackout. Again.' He took glasses off and placed them on his work desk. Hands tried to rub away all the stress in his face, but it was wothless. This would be a good time for a short nap. He turned his head to the right and faced the window. He would have shut his eyes, but the view struck him like a bolt of lightning. There was a streetlight just below, the bulb's rays reflected on his stained glass. It was still on. 'Blackout my ass.'

He reached for a Beretta and portable torchlight under his desk and ran out to warn every police officer in the building.

"A raid!" he screamed. "We got a raid! Get your guns up, get down to the holding cells!" He startled the three detectives, woke them up. They each picked a sidearm and followed him down.

"Holy shit!" one of them exclaimed as Jim flashed a spotlight down to one of their fellow blue coats drenched in blood.

"Calm down people keep steady." A cop killer, silent, deadly. Nobody heard anything. The body indicated large cut marks, this guy was sliced.

"They'll come for me you know," it rang like a churchbell to Jim Gordon.

Suddenly, all four policemen ducked down with Jim in front. Sight came before sound. Gunshot lit up like a flare, and screamed not long after. The men were in a straight hallway that lead to the cells, and that's where the enemy decided to get them. In a straight line, open, without cover.

One of them got down too late. A bullet lodged into his skull before he could even see it. Gordon raised his weapon, but hesitated in firing. The shooter was behind a corner wall, that's where he or she would have gone to cover. Gordon raised his flashlight in that general direction to keep the shooter in place.

"Hold your fire. Shoot only upon sight," he whispered to whatever backup he had left. They had their eyes locked to the same corner, and said nothing.

But sounds of footsteps seemed to be coming from another direction. 'There's more than one. Shit.' The detectives surveyed the path of the footsteps, dazed in confusion. First it came from behind them, then in front, around their sides, and finally, on top.

"The vents!" exhaled Gordon and in the blink of an eye, shifted his torchlight to the ceiling above them, disregarding the shooter who still leaned behind the corner wall. The ceiling walls ripped apart like cardboard paper, a sharp and reflective blade came into view. Each man spent their bullets with no sense of caution, yet none of them seemed to hit. The blade continued tearing randomly, until some dark figure emerged from within. He was armed with a japanese katana, bullets would have easily taken him down, if only they were fast enough. The flashlight caught his face but nothing else. An asian male with long black hair stretching out to his shoulders. He shred his way past the two remaining police officers. Gordon was next. The police commisioner locked his gun on the target, but the ninja was so close. Another cacophonous gunfire blared, but Gordon hadn't even pulled the trigger. The shooter got him on the chest before the ninja came in. He fell on the ground motionless.

**Wayne Manor, Gotham City**

**10:21 p.m **

All the guests had already left. Bruce decided to help Alfred clean whatever mess was left. There were temporary maids who helped out as well, and did a significant job at that. Soon the manor was back to the way it origionally was, clean as a whistle. Although the function had started out as well as was planned, it didn't seem to fill its main intent. At most Bruce had spent five minutes talking to the popular Damien Crest, but about trivial matters. And all the guests had worn him out as well, in the end he spent most of the evening speaking to Crest's personal secretary who had told quite a lot about her employer.

Bruce's night was over. He would make a few calls to Damien in the morning.

At the moment however, Batman's night began. Out of his window and into the clear dark sky he saw his calling sign, his name.

**Elverson Road, Gotham City**

**10:23 p.m **

Another cold Gotham night. Crest was feeling drowsy from all the alcohol and chit chat, and his head was merciless. He would have fallen asleep, but after having been awake throughout an entire fifty minute drive in Gotham city traffic that's slower than mollases on a January morning, it became fairly obvious that someone wasn't going to be hitting the sack anytime soon.

They were still out on the road, and matters had not yet improved. In fact, just then things had gotten a lot worse. Crest and his assistant were on board an expensive pitch black limousine cruising through the less than fortunate side of town. It was all the driver's fault.

It seemed at the time like a good idea. All the other roads were crowded with frustrated citizens blowing horns at each other. Elverson Road, once they came close to the welcome sign, things could only get worse.

The driver took a turn down the passing and slowed down. He didn't even know what hit him. Four street thugs, all of them adults with the exception of one child only 12 years old, stood right in front of the limousine's point of view, demanding with handguns to stop the vehicle. The driver complied with a panic-stricken face, he coldn't even dare thinking of what would happen next. He didn't have to. A fifth man came by the side window armed with a .357. He didn't even know what hit him.

"Aaaaggh!" Dina coudn't stop screaming. Four complete strangers had forced the passenger doors open and pulled Damien and his assistant out of the car by their shoulders. Overlooking the events was the youngest of the crew, moving not an inch. He watched observantly with a gun on his hand, pointing the barrell on the ground.

"Oy lookie what we have here!" one of them declared to his mates as he set eyes on Dina. He had white skin and dreadlocked hair. "Ain't this a pretty little bitch?"

The female hostage cried. She wasn't raised to expect any of it. Things were not meant to be this way. "No, please," she begged to her captor. "Please, don't do this," she began screaming out across the neighborhood. It's not that nobody could hear, only that they didn't care. Another wolf howling in the night, everyone tried to ignore it for their own lives. The man in dreadlocks punched her between the eyes, leaving a clear purple mark on her face. She cried even louder this time, but the man was'nt going to try to shut her up anymore. In fact, she was going to scream loud, according to all the things he had in plan.

Two of the thugs began searching Damien Crest for a wallet as one of them threw a fist on his jaw. This was the Gotham City that Damien Crest had always remembered. Immediately, he clashed down on the ground face first. His blood was boiling at a fast rate, steaming through his ears.

"This fool doesn't have any cash on him," said one of them to another.

Damien's back was turned to their point of view. None of them realized the gun in his pant pocket. None of them did, except the 12 year old child when it came into view.

"The guy's got a gun!" he informed his elders. However, the three goons parked close to Damien weren't near fast enough to react, a price they paid with death.

Without hesitation, unlike as a child, Damien blew holes on all three goons rendering them dead before they could even hit the ground. It was all done swiftly, undoubted, and certain. As if he had been waiting his entire life to do that again. Now all that was left was the dreadlock and the 12 year old child.

However, the man took a defensive stance. He raised a gun at Dina's head, and all she could do now was scream at the simple thought of dying.

"You want me to kill this bitch, huh!" said the dreadlock staring deep into Damien's eyes. What he got was 25 years of rage staring right back at him with no sense of cause or remorse. "Son!" the man screamed. The 12 year old answered. "Kid, I want you to go run back home," he ordered, still facing the eyes of Damien Crest standing up straight aiming a gold coated Colt, itching to claim yet another life.

The child hesitated. "But dad..."

"Go!" he turned his head to the child for a split second, and that was all the motivation Damien needed to pull his trigger.

The bullet tore a hole through the man's skull, killing him almost in an instant. However, reflex caused the man's trigger finger to pull back, and the woman in the bullet's trajectory paid an undeserved price.

"No!" Damien raced towards Dina and caught her on his arms. She recieved a nine millimeter pill on the neck, an endless supply of her blood spewed through the leak. Damien put three fingers to block the bleeding, but it didn't make things any better.

"No, no no no," this couldn't be happening to her. It can't be. His last and only friend, this couldn't be happening. She did not deserve any of this.

But she died without saying any last words. Damien couldn't stop the tears. He hugged her close, absorbing all the warmth from her body until it was gone. All that remained was of her was a lifeless body.

She died, because of all of this. This street, this place, this city, this world. Everyone in it.

Damien cursed aloud and reluctantly let her go. He caught sight of the 12 year old criminal who simply stood in tears, watching his father deceased. "You killed him!" the child pouted. "You killed my father!"

There was still an ounce of filth, still breathing. Damien rose to his feet, cocked the gun still in his grasp, and aimed it at his enemy. As the child saw this, his eyes widened, and raised his legs to flee. But he was caught on the leg by an excruciating sting. He mouthed a horrendous scream and fell on the ground. His legs had gone numb, so he pushed his body sweeping across the floor away from the madman.

Damien followed the child taking only a few slow steps. Upon reaching proximity, he took aim. Gunfire once again roared past the soundwaves of Gotham City.

**Gotham City Police Department, Gotham City**

**10:29 p.m **

Gordon wasn't at the rooftop. It looked completely abandonned. Something was wrong. The spotlight was switched on blaring into the night sky, but there was nobody there to make the greeting. Batman saw this seconds before he landed. It wasn't like Jim Gordon, something was definitely wrong.

Beep!

Batman heard a slight noise coming close from his location.

Beep!

Batman took a few cautious steps forwards, minding his environment for anything that could constitute as a trap. Suddenly his eyes came across a few blue and red wires hidden almost flawlessly on the Gotham City Police Department rooftop. 'A bomb'.

Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!

The caped crusader raced away towards the ledge, hoping he could make past it just in time. Everything seemed to go fine for a while. The bomb didn't seem like it would ever go off, Batman was already dangerously close to living another night. Just one step forward!

Beeeep!

Orange flames blew the entire rooftop into shards and debris. Soon after, the entire station caught on flames, and not one soul was alive to stop it. It seemed inevitable, a tragedy that has the potential to claim the lives of so many in one stroke. And that was the Batman's very purpose. To make laws a reality, create impassable boundaries, show the criminals that they do not rule the world, but most importantly, ensure the safety of Gotham's citizens. Tonight, he failed.

Batman's cape caught on fire as he barely leaped away with his life. Instead of flying, his body landed a loud thump on a building wall just adjacent to the department. He gripped on a rappeling gun and tied its hook onto a tiny yet sturdy metal bar bolted on the wall itself. He wasn't out of harm's way just yet. Out from a distant building window looked out a tiny dark apparition. His eyes looked through a zooming lens into the eyes of Batman. They saw each other as they did the last time they met, only now the tables had been turned. The sniper scoping through his rifle, aiming for a perfect shot. Batman's cape still glowing on fire, and a long fall awaiting down the brisk streets. There couldn't have been any other way for it to end.

No, there are always alternatives. Batman shielded his face with his wrist for protection. And he took a chance. He made an attempt for flight with an injured wing, praying only that he could for one last time make it out alive.

His wings lit on flame were still somewhat functionable, but balance was slowly wearing out. Batman would have to keep himself up until he was away from the sniper's point of view.

However, the sniper was not about to let his target go. He fired several rifle shots from out the window down to his enemy. Unfortunately, none were precise enough to hit, none, except one.

A bullet tore through the Batman's cape, causing a rapid descent onto the ground. There was nothing else he could do now but shield his face and hope for the best.

Inglund Haley looked to the streets that his target had slammed into head first. He didn't make one move. The legend they called Batman had to be dead now, finally. He grabbed a walkie talkie and spoke softly into the channel, "Bat's down." That's when the crew would pick him up. And a few minutes later, they did. A van pulled over in the back, Haley made his entrance to the side door and was greeted by his fellow colleagues who were now on the way to cashing a $100,000 check each as promised. It would be money well deserved, to all of them.

On the drivers seat was Pretty Allie, the only female in the four man team. She played her role as an explosives expert. She was a brunette with a young face, pretty, yet dangerous. Her father was a terrorist for hire for several revolutionary groups in third world countries during the 70's. She caught all there was to know about planning attacks and how much explosives could wipe out how much.

Polishing his pistol on the front passengers was the buff thirty year old Buckham, an excellent tactician and squad leader. He had great charisma as well, because that's what it took to convince three proffesional mercenaries to try their luck against the feard legend of the night for $100,000 each. At first the gang was skeptical of the idea, and wanted to avoid Gotham as much as possible. Batman's scare flooded past Gotham, his name made headlines all around the world. Only an army brave enough would risk everything to fight a legend. That's where Buckham's mercenaries came in.

And last but not least was the vigorous Dru, combat expert. Sheathed behind him was his signature weapon; the ancient japanese katana. He was in his early twenties, a black haired Korean who had recieved all his training from the now extinct organization known as the league of shadows. Dru had turned to be one of the most promising students in the league, but after five years he decided to leave the clan in search for his own purposes. Dru was never known to be one who worked as a team, which made his current proffesion as a mercenary squad member ironic. He was just a super soldier after all, and nothing more. It required a leader to find battles, and without a leader he would be nothing more than another psycho killer in a city that already has it's hands full.

The mercenaries gave each themselves a pat on the back and drove on to their next destination. However, if they had kept their eyes peeled and undistracted by the thought of victory and another paycheck, they would have noticed a bat hiding under the van.

**Savvies' Toy Department, Gotham City**

**11:21 p.m **

The ride caused Batman a great deal of stress. His cape had suffered several burns and torn holes, it would no longer prove functional. He would have to check with Luscious Fox in the morning for an extra pair.

Suddenly, the van had arrived to a screeching halt. Four pairs of footsteps got off and walked several feet away from view. Batman waited for five more minutes, and made his arrival.

Dru was the first one to enter past the toy department entrance. It was closed by now, which was why the contact provided a key. He switched the lights on and walked around aimlessly in the bright empty store, wondering where their contact could be.

"Anybody home?" called Inglund. And before long came into view a short fat man carrying an umbrella clad in a black tuxedo, top hat and a monocle on his left eye. His skin was pale and nose extraordianrily long.

"Rheh, rheh, rheh," he laughed, or at least appeared to. "And how did your little endeavor turn out?"

Buckham placed himself in front of his four man squad with a blunt tone on his face. "We did the job. Now, the money." In his life outiside work, Buckham was usually a friendly mannered individual who had his various ways of talking to people and making friends easily. Outside the job, he enjoyed all the things most men his age enjoyed. A cold beer, monday night football on a cozy couch, and talking with friends. However, on the job, he tuned himself into something else. A cold reptile with no guilt or remorse for killing, straight to the point, no chit chats or small talk with clients.

The short man smiled. "Aaah, and I believe you," he said sincerely. "I must applaud you," he hung his umbrella on his arm in order for him to free his hands and give a more welcoming congradulation. He clapped his hands together slowly, still managing a smile on his face, truly these men were worth every penny. However, the fantastic four stood idly by, waiting to presume buisness. From the looks on their faces, it didn't seem that they understood exactly what they had just done. Batman was dead. That was a dream that most criminals would never have even thought possible. The dark knight legend, slaughtered by a pair of the best mercenaries money can buy. A dream that sounded too good to be true. "But where are my manners?" he composed himself after realizing that his associates did not share the same degree of excitement that was currently flaring like brimstone in his head. A dream come true. There was nothing now that could wipe out that smile across his cheeks. The menace was gone, and he was free to compete in the gun markets and any other organized activity he saw fit. Truly this was a criminal's freedom. However, all it took for things to go from high up heaven straight to hell was the dance of a bat.

The lights went out and darkness followed. A sign of his entry. Some dreams that seem too good to come true usually are.

"Shit, what's with the lights?" Inglund thought aloud.

Only four people at the moment knew exactly what that meant. Those people included Buckham, his contact, the highly observant Dru, and the animal that was supposed to be dead.

Four of the mercenaries had their stance close to each other. The only thing Batman needed to do now was leap straight down and stretch his fists.

Each of them felt a prescense drop in right behind them, but three of the four experienced a single nerve racking blow rendering them temporarily unconscious. Dru had been the more cautious one and backed away from Batman's fist. Immediately, he drew out his katana always holstered on his side, and prepared to make a few strikes of his own.

Now was no time for theatricality. Batman was feeling weak, and the goon swinging a blade towards him seemed able to navigate without any error in the dark. He mustered enough strength to dodge his blade, but eventually a new plan would have to come into mind, and fast.

Dru gripped the handle of his swords tightly, pulled it towards his chest, and with all his might sent a straight stab that was to penetrate through the masked man's hull. Batman upon realization, turned away from the edge by rotating his body sharply to the left. Dru, dissapointed at his failure, pulled back his reel to throw a much more aggressive and merciless swing, but little had he realized that the Batman's fist was already heading towards his cranium. He didn't move away from it because of his loss of concentration, and that alone was a mistake that he would never forgive himself for.

The blade wielding ninja fell down unconscious much like the rest of his crew. Batman collected himself up. Finally, the man who signed a contract for his death was standing right in front of him, too scared to move an inch. The Penguin.

"You. Youuu. Raak but you're supposed to be dead!"

Batman leaped at the short man pulling all his weight, causing him to falter to the ground hard and in pain. Penguin made an attempt to grab his umbrella to fend off his enemy, but a crushing blow to the chest made him think twice about it. Then he was grabbed by the collar, and the warm breath of Batman sprayed into his face.

"In this world, never forget one thing." Penguin knew perfectly well where the Batman was, but there wasn't near enough light shed to see the cold death his eyes. "I am the authority."

Suddenly, a loud burst erputed from the dark, and Penguin bled to death in an instant. At first Batman thought that he must have shot himself. It was the only thing that seemed to make any sense at a blind thought even if it seemed farfetched. But when he heard the hyena's familiar laugh in the background from straight behind, he knew it wasn't true.

"Ha ha ha ha! Looks like it'll be a while till a penguin makes the next laugh."

Batman dropped the now dead criminal held tight in his arms to face his joker. But now was not the Joker's night. He was gone in an instant. As if the only thing there was his voice. And he took note of another even more haunting fact. The mercenaries that were presumed unconscious, had suddenly vanished.


	8. Changes

**Changes**

**St. Elverich Hospital, Gotham City**

**2:32 p.m November 14**

The emergency room was always stacked to the rim with more than several patients suffering gunshot wounds, stabbings, and multiple assaults. Every half an hour it seemed the emergency crew managed to fish out yet another victim of tragedy. Today was no different, except that instead of harmless pedestrians and petty street thugs mugged in the dead of night, it was policemen and a millionaire's aid being rolled in through the white doors of reconciliation. Not everybody made it out alive. In fact, everyone else was dead with the exception of one Gotham City police commisioner who took a shot from a bullet that barely made pass the kevlar plating underneath his shirt.

Jim Gordon was still at the hospital, only now he was getting dressed to walk out. The doctor insisted that he stay for a while longer, but Gordon realizing that the hospital at the moment needed all the empty space it could get turned down the offer. So he walked out of his room with a prescribed canister of pain killers and slipped a few pills into his mouth. Barbara would lose her head over this.

Reporters had already stormed the reception office with microphones and cameras ready, so the doctor suggested taking the back door. He would have left a lot sooner, if only he hadn't caught glimpse of a familliar face through one of the treating room windows. He pulled the knob and let himself in.

"Damien?"

He sat himself on a blue foldable chair provided by the nurse a few hours ago, keeping his sight on a friend who appeared to be sleeping on the hospital bed. However, the moniter standing beside her had a straight line drawn across the screen indicating her lack of pulse. Damien was drenched in tears, but stopped crying minutes ago. He turned to the man who had just made his allowed himself in.

"They got her beat a few hours ago," was all he could bear to say.

Gordon hadn't heared the news, but didn't bother to ask about it. The moment was well too traumatizing, now was not the time to talk. He shared his remorse, and motioned to leave the room. But he froze.

"It's never going to end these savages is it?"

Gordon didn't say a word. He left the hospital even more hurt than when he came in.

And the millionare Damien Crest was alone again. Nothing around but emptiness itself. Rapists, it won't end. Rage flowing in his veins had a demand for drastic action. A war has been waged. They will all have to suffer the pains they inflict onto others. They will all die, without benignancy and petty tolerance. Evil has gone on for long enough. Their blood will be shed in the name of those they have murdered.

He looked into Dina one more time, and made a secret wish that she stay the way she is. He wouldn't want her to see all the things he was about to do next.

**Wayne Manor, Gotham City**

**4:32 p.m **

Batman had failed. Last night, he lost every war he was trained to fight. He didn't protect anyone. He didn't stop anything. The front page was solid evidence of that fact. Dina was dead, a life he could have saved. It was all his fault and nobody else's. The holy warrior was slowly losing his crusade. His adversaries were once again in arms reach of Gotham. He sat silently on his father's study chair, too ashamed to even move. He should have paid the price, it was his inadequacy. He should have felt the pain. All he suffered were bruises spread across his body, not near what he should have endured.

In front of him was the study desk with today's newspaper placed on the center. The front page read, "Evil still strong."

"This was all my fault," he whispered silently to himself. He opened one of the drawers on the desk looking for nothing in particular, a tiny sharp letter opener came into view. He held the handle with one hand and examined the sharp edge with his eyes. "This was all my fault". He stretched out his right arm, and held the letter opener tight on his left. Slowly but surely, he let the tip sink into his arm deep enough to puncture a wound. He didn't stop. He deserved the pain. Blood dripped steadily from his arm down to the wooden floor marking a red stain. The pain and suffering numbed his stress, and it didn't feel half bad. He closed his eyes and rejoiced at the torment, it started to feel good. He lifted his head up in pain and accepted it. But suddenly he caught his father staring down at him through the family portrait. His eyes seemed to look down at him with dissapointment.

"No!" screamed Bruce, and almost as if a reflex, he propelled the blade causing a clacking noise after it landed on the ground.

**Jim Gordon's residence, Gotham City**

**5:12 p.m **

BarbaraGordon was not at home at the moment. There was a note on the dining room counter marked on a post it note that explained where she was and why she wasn't at home. It was a good thing that she wasn't around right now, there would have been all sorts of hell. And Jim was in no shape of mind to face any confrontations about last night. His fellow workers and friends were murdered in cold blood, as if they were a grain of sand. Like they didn't even matter, families heartbroken. And their killers were still outside roaming free in the world, enjoying every ounce of liberty they took from innocent blood.

'No, dammit Gordon. Don't talk that way. Justice always prevails. It's only a matter of time until we get them, keep reminding yourself. Never ever ever go there!'

Normally Jim Gordon wasn't a stupid man, but switching the television on in hopes of drowning his flashbacks weren't in support of that fact. The only thing news reporters had to talk about now included the words "Evil" and "Prevails." But he didn't bother shutting the box. It's voice gave him company during his time of desperate loneliness and doubt. The news reporters kept blabering about tragedy and lost hope, death and descent. All words he grew fammilair with working in the Gotham City Police Department. Then, the reporter mentioned the name Damien Crest, and for some odd reason, he was immediately glued to the set.

"What do you have for us Diana?" A brown haired middleage male asked via live camera to the reporter standing only a few feet away from an empty podium set right outside the Gotham City Hall.

"Well Bob, our station has just recieved word that the Salas CEO Damien Crest is having a discussion with governor Ellis, and has agreed to make a live statement to us just moments from now."

"Diana, what do you think will be discussed to the public from Damien Crest who has just experienced a major tragedy here in Gotham City?"

The female reporter cleared her throat and spoke bluntly to a black microphone held towards her red lips. "Bob, I believe that Damien is here to talk about what kind of future Salas has with Gotham City, and most probably about what he and governor Ellis have been talking about under closed curtains. Bob I can only say that I hope everything goes for the best...Oh, here he is right now."

Every vicinal camera around had their lens faced on a man in a black suit exiting his limosine. And to nobody's surprise, that man was Damien Crest. He walked in confident steps toward the podium that was set up just for him, cleared his throat, and spoke.

"I hope today has been a good day to you all. Life is so damn short, we should all just sit back and watch the show." A few of the audiences grew skeptical of his rather harsh use of language. "I'm not going to lie to you people. Not anymore. This hellhole is the worst place to live in. You're all pathetic. You just sit by and let all this shit happen and all you do about it is blame the guy next door!" he exclaimed, displaying an uncontrollable rage towards his audience. This was not the Damien Crest that they had grown to admire. This was not the Salas CEO who helped save the lives of thousands worldwide. The man they saw on screen, was someone else entirely.

"You are all pathetic! You are all weak!" Nearly half the crowd watching opened their mouths wide in discontempt. Mothers watching from the sets immediately closed their children's ears and some even cursed at the television.

"And you know what. You people, as worthless as you are. The only ally I have ever found in my life is this." He reached into his coat side pocket and out pulled his golden Colt raised high above the air so everyone can see. Crowds watching nearby ducked instantly after catching sight of the weapon. Damien presented a smile across his face. "Look at you all. Afraid for your own skins." He fired two shots into the skies without hesitation of any kind. The crowds screamed at the top of their lungs, and some even started running away.

"Don't worry. I won't harm you. Well, not yet anyway." He slipped the gun back from whence it came, and continued his speech as if nothing at all had just happened. "People. I have talked to the governor, and we had a very interesting chat about all the things that will change in the future of Gotham City. I have decided to offer investments and openings right here in Gotham City, so you can all reap the benefits that you so greatly think you deserve. And I have also brainstormed with the governor and mayor," he said, emphasizing "And". "We have come to terms on how to run an even more effective police force and all the finances that we would need to run it." And a few sentences afterwards, he spilled it out. Damien would be more than willing to support the police financially to ensure a more effective and budgeted force. In turn, they belonged to him.

Jim Gordon was speechless. There were no words for what he was feeling at the moment. All of a sudden, Damien Crest had bought the police so easily, and without the commisioner's consent. He honestly didn't know if this would mean bad or good things for the future of Gotham City. Would this bring about the end of a criminal era, or their next golden age?

**Governor Ellis residence, Gotham City**

**6:32 p.m**

A series of random pounds assailed the entance door of governor Ellis' home.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," he hailed, only then retrieving himselfup from his couch. He looked through the keyhole and puffed. 'Gordon.'He took the locks off and opened the door.

Gordon spoke before the governor could explain himself. "What the hell are you doing Ellis!"

"Jim. Now is not the time to be talking about this okay? Look, come see me in my office tomm..."

"No! We talk now! I want to know why you sold the police to some millionaire!"

"Calm down Jim!" he roared past the frustration and hidden depression."You know we lack budget. We need that money to continue our jobsbetter than last time okay. Last night was disaster on Gotham City you know that. I had to make some choices Jim, please understand. We need a change and you know that."

And no matter how much he denied it, he knew deep inside that that was the only answer he would ever find from the governor. Yet regardless, he still denied. "No. No. This is wrong. You can't do this. The law does not belong to one man."

"Jesus Gordon your'e acting crazy."

"You're the one out of your goddamn mind. You just sold the law and everything we've fought for."

Ellis had nothing else to say to Jim. The police commisioner walked away grieving in dissapointment. Gotham was headed for yet another disaster.

**Wayne Manor, Gotham City**

**7:12 p.m**

The word spread all across the city like wildfire. Damien Crest had bought the police. Bruce shrieked past his father's walls. "I've failed. I'm so sorry I failed." He gazed once more at his father's eyes. "I will not dissapoint you again."


	9. Second Laugh

**Second Laugh**

**Gotham City Police Department, Gotham City**

**2:32 p.m, November 16**

Gotham City had seen brighter days. Things never got this bad in the past no matter how bad they were to begin with. There had been countless occasions in which they could have, but Batman always found a way to save the day. Now it seemed to be slipping away, and the face of evil seemed to slowly but surely overcome their only hero, saint, legend. Nobody ever thanked him enough for all the things he had done for them in the past, and only now that they needed him did it sudenly become obvious.

Jim Gordon sat in his office awaiting impatiently for the billionare who had just purchased the entire goddamn police force. Damien Crest. His last talk with him on the phone a few hours ago was less than a warm welcome to his throne, but at the moment he meant every word, and still did.

Abruptly, Damien had appeared through the entrance doors for the second time ever, only this time gleeing with a gracious smile. Acompanying him were five oversized men in blue jumpsuits each carrying an enclosed cardboard box.

"Set them over here", he refered to the giants and pointed a finger to the lobby grounds. They all dropped the boxes in the designated spot and left the department with no quarrel. Police staff members all got off their stations to observe what they had in treat, as did Jim.

Damien flicked a switchblade to life and cut through the tape enclosing the boxes. He reached inside and introduced to the curious eyes a fresh batch of kevlar armour plating. "Dive in boys," he invited. "This stuff is nearly state of the art, more expensive and finer than the shit you guys have in the armory."

The policemen who at first were getting ready to yell insults at their new dictator now scavenged through the pile of armor, some trying it on right away, some observing it's quality. "Holy shit man. This is the stuff," came from someone among the school of policemen who were now acting like first graders looting a bag of candy.

Jim hated to admit it, but he was impressed. Maybe things would go rather smoothly. Now he considered taking back those words he said on the phone.

Damien walked towards Jim still with a smile, as if he forgot the prior conversation had ever taken place. "How's your day Jim?"

Normally, he would have prefered a more formal title, but then again this was his authority talking, so he decided to keep shut on that. "Not too bad yet."

"You wanted to talk to me?"

"In my office," he said, leading Damien away from public eye. They each took a seat, in the same places they did the last time they met, only now there was an empty spot.

"Why are you doing this?" asked Jim bluntly.

Damien thought to himself for a few seconds about how he would properly word his answer. "Why do we have so much crime?" he counterasked.

"What?"

"We have so much crime, because those who are supposed to watch over us don't have the means or even morale required. That's why my life is this way, and that's why yours is."

"Morale?" he wondered aloud as if it was a foreign word.

"Yes Jim. Morale. A man needs morale if he's going to risk his life protecting his neighbors. Didn't you hear? The police will be recieving a 14 higher pay, all coming out of Salas treasury. That means more cash for everyone, hence morale."

Confused, Jim sat silently contemplating the idea to himself, trying to come up with any reason against Damien Crest.

"Look Jim," said Damien interrupting his train of thought. "I gotta go; conference calls. You have any questions you call me on the cell."

He left the office, and Jim was alone again, listening to nothing but the rackets that overflowed from outside his wooden doors. "Coconuts."

**Ellensdale Carnival, Gotham City**

**8:21 p.m **

The carnival was especially lively this night. Everything had a little bit more fun and laugh in them. An observant eye might go on to say too much. But neither the playful childrennor their humble guardians walking beside them watching at all times nor even some of the staff seemed to understand why, or care for that matter. Nobody bothered looking past the smiling crowd for anything conspicous at all.They eyed by disregarding the answer that layed before them.

Jack Napier, the only clown laughing more hysterically than any clown in the carnival, or the world for that matter. This was going to be yet another party night for him. He had a tight grip on his old world war II antique, the one that went by the name of Thompson. Twelve clips hid underneath his coat, waiting anxiously for a blast. And a blast they would get.

"HA HA HA HA HA HA!" He joined in the joy the children expressed after consuming his special customized cotton candy. Soon after, they fell and died with joy.

"Oh well," he aimlessly rattled the weapon in his arms, caring not at all who it hit as long as it hit someone. A bullet was never meant to be spent lightly. Bodies piled up on the floor, whatever life was left tried best to reach the exit with their lives intact.

"Don't eat candy," advised the Joker as he planted bullets on anything that moved. "It'll make you fat. And if you're fat, you won't be dandy, and you'll be cranky."

"Like a messy rat! A tire track!"

Then, soaring high above from the skies past the moon was his greatest threat. "Or a bat," he snarled and aimed the barrell of his gun hoping to land a bullet on his caped crusader. He wasn't known as being a perfect marksman, so it was to nobody's surprise even him, that not a shot came close. But the bat wasn't about to take that chance. Smoke gas suddenly rained from the sky down towards the Joker, he had to shield his eyes in order to retain sight. Expecting yet another close ambush, the Joker fled blindly away from the smoke, firing his weapon randomly without observing his shots.

Batman landed on the grassy floor intact and posed for a leap. But the Joker flared sparks of gunshot without any recognition, and Batman had to hold himself back. It would take only one out of the fifteen shots he was firing to end the game, and the possibilities of that happening could not be comprehended.

And at that moment, it seemed that this time the Joker was going to have things his way. He was beyond the blinding smoke now and just outside the carnival entrance still running only this time he could see perfectly well where he was. Batman would have to wait his turn.

What caught the Joker's eye was a yellow cab standing on hold with the driver in it and the keys in the ignition. He raised the Thompson's field of vision onto the driver's head and sprayed his only form of love, penetrating through the winshield and slamming the driver as hard and precise as cupid's arrow.

"It is time for the Joker to make away with the Jokermobile!" He taunted himself to all the twenty or so audiences still heartsunk at the carnival massacre. Then he retreated into the yellow cab, pulled the dead driver away and sped through the road, mindless of the three young children he ran over on the way.

Jack Napier drove in the night with his headlights blinking high for what seemed to have been seven minutes or so, and just when he thought everything would end well, he noticed a loud thump crash above the ceiling of his getaway vehicle.

"You bats don't seem to quit do you?" He took his hands off the steering wheel and replaced them with his elbows as he was reloading his Thompson. Only a second after he was all done, he began firing at the roof of his car spreading his bullets in a patternless motion.

A car rooftop was not sufficient protection. Batman had to veer clear of the bullets which tore through the metal material like it was paper. He was running the same risk he was faced with in the carnival. Only the chance of him getting a bullet was much higher this time. Everything happened in a matter of seconds. He had to reconsider, and fast. Waiting for the Joker to run out of bullets was out of the question, there had to be other options.

Jack Napier understood the seriousness of his situation. Batman had come to take him away once and for all. He would be sent back to Arkham Asylum, he would go mad, the jokes would be up. But that didn't stop him from laughing his head off as he continued firing his weapon.

A heavy force fell out from the rooftop and rolled back, he felt it from the car. He glanced at the side mirror and witnessed one of the greatest things he had ever seen in his entire life. The man in black was hanging desperately onto the butt of the car, his hands losing grip.

"HA HA HA HA HA!" Joker immediately veered into a sudden left turn onto the freeway trying to shake off his masked nemesis. He looked into the mirror, Batman was still in his reflection.

"Arrrgh."

The freeway was a mass of cars driving at dangerous speeds throughout Gotham. Right now, it was the perfect weapon.

His cab found the nearest car to be a red Suzuki driven by a 38 year old male. He aimed his car in front of the red and bumped his trunk on it's nose.

Batman saw the red Suzuki approaching so close to him. This was it. When the nose was close enough, Batman mustered all his strength and rappelled his arms around the red car, pulling his body on top afterwards.

It was unbelievable. Batman was still in the mirror. His disgusting face remained, still plaguing the troubled mind. Only now, he was looking from somewhere else. Batman was standing on top of a moving car.

This gave Joker a few snickers of frustration. He stuck his head out of the side window and brought his gun with him.

"Sayonara scatman!"

Joker delivered a spray of lethal injections at the driver of the red Suzuki. While the driver did indeed die as he intended, Batman, the thorn on his side, the devil, Lucifer himself, had dissapeared.

"This night belongs to the Joker!" The proud villain declared. Everything was going so smoothly now. Batman, that menace, was gone. He took a deep relaxed breath and shifted his eyes to the rode. He observed the side mirror once more and realized, Batman wasn't there anymore. The only man in the big picture was himself.

He wondered then when the next time would be that they met once more. Little did he know that their next encounter would be a little sooner than expected. A small black glint appeared from behind, growing larger and larger. Now it became solid, and was racing passed every other car in its path. It was a vehicle, but not a car. It was black, large and excessive on protective metal plates on the hull. Like a tank driving on the road.

Batman was growing quite fond of his Tumbler. A tank on the road, except faster, accessible, and much more dangerous. There was one feature in particular above all that made him proud.

Combat mode. Just with the flick of a button, he could play his turn as a master of the rules.

A single homing rocket traced the Joker's back left tire and blew it to debris. Unable to sustain any control, Napier slid with his car past the highway crashing into any barriers that came into his path. The car took a short dive down into the city block and crashed with excessive force.

Jack Napier tried to budge the door open, but it was jammed. He pulled himself out from the side window and ran away from the smashed car with his machine gun in hand.

The dark knight suddenly came out of nowhere and delivered a smack on the Joker's face before he could even point his gun.

"Not this time."


	10. Will and Firepower

**Will and Firepower**

**Gotham City Police Department, Gotham City**

**1:12 p.m, November 18**

Everybody in Gotham City heard the news. It even made front page in the local papers. "Dark knight strikes again." Jim snickered. Joker was finally back at Arkham, and hope was once more on the rise. Every cop in the district gave a loud round of applause. The dark king had reclaimed his awaited throne. Today was off to a good start.

**Romano's Eatery, Gotham City**

**2:21 p.m**

Buckham sat in the diner pouting at his guts silently to himself. For his unforgivable failure, nothing would ever make him forget the pain. He caused an embarassment to his name and reputation, and his client had died as a result of his aberration. He deserved a lot worse, he deserved to die. There was no way to make him forget the past, no way to make ammends. The only alternative was to turn around and face it, relive it once more.

A man clad in an expensive brown suit saw the mercenary and took a free seat.

"How much?" asked Buckham.

"I would prefer if we didn't talk economics just yet."

"Fair enough." His client had heard of the failure involving a previous customer. And as an acknowledgement of his mistake, Buckham would allow his client to do some of the talking.

"What's the aim?"

The client cleared his throat. "It's a little more complicated than that."

"What do you mean?"

"I saw what you did at the police station. Very very well done."

"And?"

"This little endeavor is going to be simmilar in a way. Except a different place."

"Where?"

The client paused. "In the monster's hatch, on the 21st of this month."

"Excuse me?" came the puzzled Buckham.

"You know there was a shoot up in this very diner a few days ago?"

"Yeah I heard about that," replied the mercenary unsure of where this conversation was going.

"People died, all of them innocents. It's funny how the only ones that seem to die are innocents. The bad, well they just put them in the monster's hatch. They live to fight another day."

Buckham paused. The message became readable. Now it was only a question of will and firepower.

**Gotham City Police Department, Gotham City**

**7:52 p.m**

The rooftop was repaired back to its origional shape and form after the attack that had previously blown it close to bits. Reconstruction took a lot less time than any at the force had expected it to. The reason being that was because Damien Crest who had personally financed the construction. A few thousand dollars, a couple of days and a high amount of construction workers were all that was needed to get the building running back to its usual capacity.

Jim Gordon lit the searchlight and shivered in the cold as he waited for his friend to drop by. The coffee in his hands did him as good as it could, but nothing was ever warm enough to ease a frigid November night.

The caped crusader made his arrival sooner than most times. 'He must've been out in the neighborhood,' mused Jim silently.

"You catch the morning news?" Jim asked, taking another sip of his now bland coffee. "Joker's back at Arkham. This makes a lot of people happy. The boys down at the office are singing your name. Let us just hope the bastard doesn't get out again."

"If he does, I'm prepared for..."

Batman was cutt of by a fresh voice. "Prepared for what? Another act of theatricality?"

Both men stared to the voice to see the one man they never expected to meet on the roof. The man who had just legally bought the police. His name was Damien Crest.

"Crest," Jim announced.

Damien Crest kept his eyes focused on the one legend they called Batman. It was so strange to have met such a figure so easily. He took in all the minor details of his suit from the steel boots he was wearing to the horns on his head. He wasn't as tall as he had imagined.

"You started all this you realize that?"

"Excuse me?" Batman demanded in an unforgiving tone.

"I've done my homework. You're the first one of them all." He waved a mugshot of Jack Napier into the Batman's face. "And to nobody's surprise, you've gained some fans."

"This is not my work."

"You didn't expect any of this? Is that what you're telling me? You didn't expect any of what just happened?"

Batman stood silent. Jim asked that Crest leave at once, to which he replied by saying, "Pipe down Jim. And you," he said, pointing a finger at Batman. "You actually think repeating your mistakes is going to make anything better? You just caused highway accidents in this night alone, and five people have died because of your little theatrics. And despite causing all these damages, you still manage to bring him back alive."

"If we killed him," interrupted Jim. "How are we better than them?"

Damien puffed. "You think any of this has anything to do with who's better? We are the kings. We decide what actions are needed to be taken for what's best."

Batman opened his lips. "Who's we?"

"You're flaw is that you're unwilling to make the proper sacrifices. Not making the choices so you can keep your good face. You brought him alive. You've just let countless innocents to their grave."

Damien after having reached his point, retreated back to the building trying to control his urge for another outburst.

"How's he?" asked Batman.

Jim turned his head to observe his new boss storm down the stairs and said, "I don't think things will be going too good. He tends to have a control problem. The force hasn't seen it yet, but imagine how much this guy can do against us." It was a picture hard to imagine. The entire police force turned against it's dark knight. "Well I hope it doesn't com..." He turned a head and saw his ally nowhere to be seen.


	11. Why Men Fight Wars

**Why Men Fight Wars**

**Crest Residence, Gotham City**

**11:42 a.m, November 19**

Not long ago the wealthy Damien Crest had bought his own property on Gotham City after deciding to stay for just a while longer. He shouldn't have come in the first place, but now it was too late. His roots were planted, and he felt the urge to complete a new self appointed task. All the running was over, only a firm stand would resolve his issue.

The property was an elegant and rich house quite large in size. Much like Wayne Manor itself, it was secluded from the city and had a spot on the much more greener side of Gotham City. However, unlike Wayne Manor, the size of Damien Crest's new residence was nowhere in comparison. Though it was also an old Victorian style Manor much like Wayne Manor, the size of the yards were quite lacking in comparison. The Crest residence was also a few rooms short of comparison. However, each room that was present in the house was decorated in the most ornate fashion.

It had been a while since Bruce Wayne had last met Damien. The terms were much more favorable then. After the death of his personal aid, there never seemed to be a favorable time. Both men were busy, and neither were very feeling in the mood for social meetings. But Bruce decided to try and study his new fellow citizen so he could understand him better. He also remembered what Jim Gordon said last night, and kept that deep into consideration. Damien could one day become his enemy if anything else was to go wrong, and for that he had to be prepared. And as the great Sun Tzu had once said, "Keep your friends close, your enemies closer."

Damien greeted Bruce by the door as he dropped by in a limousine.

"Hey, Bruce. It's been a while," he welcomed casually as if they had been friends for a long time.

"How have things gone so far?"

"Oh, not too bad. Things should shape up."

"Look, I'm sorry I wasn't around to help. Especially with Dina gone and all..." apologized Bruce.

"Don't sweat. It's not your fault."

"So, how is the house going?" Came Bruce veering both their minds away from the tragic topic.

"Oh, things are going good so far. The furniture guys deserve a lot of credit because they're the ones actually hauling all this crap I bought into the house. Oh, you want to look around the house?"

"Sure."

As Bruce was led to the main hall, he was impressed with all the paintings hung on the wall. Though drawn in styles very diverse and exotic from each other, they all shared a same underlying theme; war. The piece that greeted him on the entrance was Tom Lovell's Battle of Hasting, on the kitchen was The Battle of Gettysburg, and the living room had two large paintings of two different campaigns. One was Stalingrad, and it was represented by a supply of German troops all armed with MP40s around their arms and a grimmacing smile across their cheeks, totting bullets blindly across the painting. Flame was seen coming from an oilfield that lay close in background as a probable cause to contact with a bullet represented by a dotted line. The field appeared on the vrge of annihilation yet the German soldiers represented in the painting stood close by unwilling to look at their own fumbles behind them but glaring instead at the bottom of the drawing which was a small piece of land with the word "World" written across in bold.

The second was the siege of Takamatsu. Japanese soldiers could be seen storming into a castle under the defense of archers who had managed to kill many on the ground, which was what the image focused on. There wasn't much detail as to the castlemen who seemed to be standing up in an unreachable tower firing a range of arrows with ease to the offensive. The artist devoted his skills to show the faces of the soldiers soldiers stabbed with arrows, and their last move before dying an expendible death.

Out of all the rooms he had introduced to Bruce, there was one he felt especially proud of because of all the ways he had personally changed it.

"Welcome to the range," he said.

It was a few stairs below the house in the basement stretched six or seven yards straight. The basement had soundproofed doors and windows so the shrill of gunshots would never leave the room. There was a rack next to the entrance stacked with all kinds of guns, most of them sidearms. The basement was lit fairly bright. Flourescent bulbs placed on every corner of the room gave a crystal white display hiding nothing underneath any layer of dark.

Damien took note of Bruce observing all the weapons placed accordingly in their designated spot. "I guess you can say I'm somewhat of a collector. You ever been on a shooting range?"

Bruce shaked his head slowly. "No, I haven't. I don't really believe in guns." The interests of his host disturbed Bruce, mostly because they had such different viewpoints and taste, and yet they could have been the same. Like brothers from another side of the world sharing the pain that connects them. But it wasn't nearly like that. They each took paths so far down the road from each other that there was no way for one to relate with the other. "I think they're a cowards weapon," he said, not realizing until after. It was completely abrupt, he thought aloud by a fluke and now that he heard himself he wished he had kept his thoughts to himself. The host would have obviously been insulted.

Instead, Damien expressed a light smile. "Is that what you think?" He wasn't the least bit offended. It was a free country after all, people should have the right to say what they want. "A weapon is a weapon Bruce, they all work to achieve a common goal."

'You could not be more wrong,' Bruce said silently to himself this time watching his mouth so his mind wouldn't flitter off and cause him a second embarassment. 'The pen is much mightier than the sword. One ends war, the other only provokes it.'

A ringing tone came alive from Bruce's pocket. He slid a hand under and retrieved a black coated cellular phone.

"Hello?" he spoke into it. It spoke back. "Yeah, okay. Sure we can talk now," then the phone went dead. Bruce turned to Damien who already had his back turned observing lusciously at his rack of guns. "I got to go, I'm sorry. Something important just came up."

"Yeah sure," replied Damien in a tone that carried not even the slightest bit of dissapointment.

As Bruce Wayne was about to leave the basement of the Crest residence, he stumbled upon yet another painting hanging a few inches on top of the basement door itself. It was a cloud and there were people in it. A rusty old man with a giant hammer and a vengeful face was standing on top of the clouds in the center of the picture and around him were allies both male and female alike with different arms of their own protecting him from a pair of grotesque red minions climbing their way onto the clouds. The battle was clearly mythological, as indicated by the embellished surrealism exposed in the author's painting. A battle of the gods. Ironically though, it was also the most supreme.

**Arlen Hesque's All you can eat, Gotham City**

**1:04 p.m **

The restaurant was relatively close to the police department only a few three or four blocks away. Most of the men in uniform enjoyed stopping by on lunch occasions because it was so close from the workspace, and not to mentions cheap. It didn't hurt to be a cop either. The manager always had a lot of respect for the hard working social servants of America, so he occasionally expressed his gratitude by offering discounts to any customer in a uniform.

Jim Gordon wasn't one to accept charities though. And even if he was, his police uniform was hanging in a closet at home, not that he couldn't get the special treatment by flashing his badge, but again, Jim Gordon wasn't one to accept charities.

He sat by the window because it was the only seat that hadn't been occupied. Lunch hours were extremely active at Arlen's, a lot more so than any other occasion.

In front of the police commisioner was a wooden table holding a plate of spaghetti with slices of garlic on top both fried in tomato sauce. He curled the noodles with a fork and carried it into his mouth.

A man dressed in a black suit invited himself over to a free chair in Gordon's table. He was missing a tie and his collar was unbottoned.

"How have things been lately?" Gordon asked curiously.

Governor Ellis replied, "Things have been alright. In fact they might be getting better."

"Yea, how's that?"

Again, like talking to him a few days ago ever since his drastic move, Ellis did not feel very comfortable. Jim Gordon was a good man and his intentions had always been for the best, but regardless he wanted no more talking about Damien Crest. Jim was probably still mad at the decision, but he would have to understand the new terms and move on if he wanted to keep his post.

"Well, budgets grown up and things in the office are getting a lot better. How is Barbara?"

Jim couldn't take it anymore. Initially when Ellis had called his office for a friendly chat to set things straight, he had high hopes that they could get along again like old times and maybe he could knock some sense into the man without raising a voice. But he felt betrayed from within, from his own people. No pills or medicine would ever cure a wound that deep.

"I am still highly against what you're doing here Ellis."

Ellis wouldn't have expected the meet to go any other way. Somehow he knew that Damien would once more be the central theme of their conversations. This was the only way to get it behind them once and for all. Jim would be a high expense to the Gotham City Police Department, but if things were to end that way, then so be it.

"Jim," said Ellis. "We talked about this. Things have been better for us ever since I made that call. I didn't let you in because I knew what you would say, and we had to make this call. We've got nothing to lose and everything to gain. He'll do good Jim, he just lost a dear friend, don't you trust the man to lead the people up? That's why he wanted this responsibility. He's a good guy Jim."

"Is that so? You remember the night his personal aid was killed? There was a kid there less than fifteen years old, shot on the leg and the head by the same gun registered to the guy."

"It was self defense Jim. These kids, some carry guns and fight like brutal soldiers."

"This was no self defense. How do you figure a kid with a bullet on the leg is going to have the strength to do anything but scream?"

"We are not having this conversation."

Jim's nerves started to rattle about like a fish pulled off from sea. 'That man should be in prison, no matter what he lost. He shouldn't have even been carrying a gun.' Of all the thoughts he had revolving around his mind, the only one he cared to mention to the governor before leaving the restaurant was, "When things go bad, and I mean really bad, it'll be all your fault."

**Arkham Asylum, Gotham City**

**2:12 p.m **

Jack Napier was growing restless in his cell. He began counting all the restless nights that he spent dreaming of yet another escape and his next fight with the one bat who always seemed to find a way of putting him back. Things would have to change, and soon. If they didn't, he would be locked up even longer and under much more watch, making escape more and more difficult. He would have to find another way of getting out into the world, and a way of ridding the world of that bat that always brought him back. One day the doors would have to be shut forever.

His cell was a tiny room with no windows or any view stretching to the outside world. The closest thing was a glass window on the door to his room that gave a peek to anyone who passed by, whether they be guests, staff workers, or a batch of his fellow madmen.

Today there was a man who passed. But he did'nt pass by, he just walked casually and brought himself to a halt upon seeing the Joker's face through the bulletproof glass. He looked at him differently than all the other people who ever saw at him. Instead of showing fear or any kind of ill threat like everyone else had, this strange man watched with eyes of anger, disgust, and grievance. An entirely different man this was, nobody ever saw the Joker that way when they looked at his face, not even Batman himself. Batman always showed at least a faint sign of remorse and pity no matter what the circumstances. He would never put him in danger's way. This man on the other hand, this fiend, watched the Joker as if killing him would be the only thing answer to brighten his day.


	12. Monster's Hatch

**The Monster's Hatch**

**Arkham Asymlum, Gotham City**

**7:42 p.m November 21**

Tonight was the night where everything was going to change in just one killing stroke. After this, Gotham will be reborn and nobody will stop it. This is for the best of the people, even if they didn't see it that way. They would label it genocide or mass murder and some would go on to deny and fight against it, but they would fail. Gotham needed a new kind of victory, one that satisfies punishment. No more corrupt murderers or rapists picking on the weak innocent souls. This would end it all surely; just one tyranny to end another.

Without the commisioner's consent, Damien had organized an offensive team of six SWAT policemen all of whom were armed with the most efficient weapons for urban combat. These six men had been handpicked based on both their talents on the force, as well as their allignment. Being extremely underpaid and uninspired by low morale, it didn't take much convincing to win their services. They, on top of four specially hired soldiers would pave the way to Damien's victory.

The men had rigged their entry wall with explosives as they hid under the bushes. He would give them the order when he was ready. As for the time being he felt the urge to perform one final visit to a patient he knew so little about.

Jack Napier had a guest. The asylum staff workers prepared Jack for his meeting by shifting him to a vacant room, cuffing his wrists and ankles onto a metal chair stapled on the ground. Damien entered with a walkie talkie in his hand. The asylum workers left them to their privacy.

"You," said Jack first. "I saw your face on the window two days ago."

They called him the Joker, but for some reason he wasn't smiling at the moment.

"You're memory is sharp Jack."

"Please," insisted the patient. "Call me Joker."

Damien snickered lightly. "Tell me what you know about this Batman...Jack."

The Joker made a snicker of his own, his being almost as loud as a laugh. "I don't think you know who I am."

"Oh I know enough. I know as much as I need to know. I also know..." Damien pulled open a .357 revolver from under his coat and aimed the tube's end at the Joker's face. "You do not want to end this way."

Now he understood why they called him the Joker. In lieu of raising an eyebrow in fear, he crackled a laugh loud and hardy.

"You think I'm afraid of dying?" guessed Joker. "Boy you are one really stupid man. Go ahead, do it. I'm a just a waiting." He closed his eyes and flashed a smirk across his face expecting the cold grip of death at any time soon as if it was just some kind of sick joke.

"I don't think you understand," clarified Damien. "Despite all your greatest acomplishments and works of art, all the sick demented things you've done you're telling me that this is how you want to die? Locked up like a useless prisioner, powerless? You could die now in some piece of shit asylum, and nothing will matter. The people on the outside will forget you, and even a demented fuck such as yourself understands that that is not the best of all ways to go."

Joker was impressed, but also tormented. What impressed him was that the man was right, and what tormented him was that he was right.

"Well I guess you're not so dumb after all. But what would my knight in shining armor say if he found you doing what you're about to do?"

Damien was glad he asked.

"Which is why I'm asking you for your cooperation. I'm not here to kill you, but I wouldn't mind doing it either. It all boils down to you my friend. What is your choice?"

This had to be some kind of sick prank. Nobody threatens Joker, NOBODY! This man obviously had a deathwish of his own. He would have dared the fiend to shoot, but his only fear was that he would. This man would have no qualms on lodging a bullet in his brain. The expression on his face two days ago accompanied with that right now was a clear indication. His only choice was to once more bow down to the high rulers so that his life would be spared.

**Gotham City Police Department, Gotham City**

**8:12 p.m**

Another long shift in the office of the police commisioner. Jim rubbed his face with his hands in order to relieve only a fraction of his ten hours worth of stress. He deserved a vacation, and he knew it. Barbara would hassle him for the special occasions that he was at the office instead of at home having dinner with his wife and baby child. Because of the baby, Mrs. Gordon spent most of her married life as a housewife. Living in a suburban neighborhood with only people who could be described as monotonous and unfriendly made such a life a rather lonely one. Sure the occasional neighbors liked to have an occasional chat now and then, maybe even a few hours of tea time, but they were all just strangers living next door. She had a close friend however once upon a time, her name was Gilda Dent. They weren't neighbors, they had only met one another through their husbands. Gilda Dent was a person very dear to Barbara, she wished only that her friend could have stayed a little while longer.

The phone on Gordon's office rang loud and clear across the room, rattling slightly the table it stood on.

"Gotham City Police Department Jim Gordon. How can I help you?"

"Jim," said the other line in a desperate tone. "My name is Dr. Harleen Quinzel. I'm a doctor at Arkham Asylum."

"Lemme guess, another nut broke loose?" asked Gordon discontented. It wasn't something to have been said lightly, even Jim knew that. But concern had a way of diminishing after being holed up in an office working long shifts every week, especially without any alcohol or fresh coffe to ease the pain.

"Jim Gordon. I need your help. There is a man here, the man in the news. His name is Damien Crest. Please," the woman's voice pleaded. "Help us. He's here at the Asylum with a gun. I think he's going to kill us."

"What!" It was hard to believe not because it seemed outrageous for a man like Damien to contemplate such an act, but because the warning was so sudden. The claim had just come off the phone and there was no evidence to support any of it, only the governor's voice.

"Look. I know this sounds crazy to you. But please, help us."

Immediately, Jim Gordon dropped the phone and stormed out of his office. "Assault on Arkham guys. I want all tactical units and backup there ASAP! Pack some armor and heavy weapons!" He shouted to the crowd of policemen. The men in blue ran to their lockers and geared themselves up for yet another long Gotham night.

Without further due, Jim stepped up the flight of stairs and stopped at the rooftop. He lit the searchlight as fast as he could and made certain that it faced the sky. Batman would be needed once again.

**Wayne Manor, Gotham City**

**9:23 p.m **

The searchlight changed Bruce Wayne much like a full moon changed the wolfman. His personality, physical characteristics, everything known about the lovable Bruce Wayne was gone. The man who had a father and a mother, friends. In the night, the millionaire heir to Thomas Wayne became transformed into an entity entirely different from him. He became that tiny soul hidden deep inside under eyesight, waiting to be unleashed. A dark knight crusader fighting a holy war. By the time the sun dies, Bruce Wayne is gone, and Batman begins.

**Gotham City Police Department, Gotham City**

**9:32 p.m **

The roof was empty. Gordon, the only man authorized to turn on the searchlight, was nowhere to be found. There was a note however, taped on the side of the strobe. Batman picked it up and read the written text to himself.

"EMERGENCY! Crest attacking Arkham. Come now."

**Arkham Asymlum, Gotham City**

**9:35 p.m **

"The bat of nights," Joker hissed. "A pacifist as you might already know. He doesn't kill, only neutralizes which is good enough for him to win. He likes to sneak around. Keep in mind, the dark is his friend and your enemy."

"Do you know who he is?" asked Damien.

"Nobody does. That's the whole point of his costume."

"How can I get him?"

"Ah, ah, ah," Joker tsked, all the while shaking his head about. "He finds you if you piss him off. Again, the dark is his friend and your enemy."

The questionaire hadn't gone as Damien anticipated. Jack knew nothing important about the so called "Bat of nights," nothing that would help him in his inevitable fight. It was a complete waste of time, but on the uphand, he made a fool of the Gotham serial killer.

Damien tapped the walkie talkie in his hands for a few seconds, and without any hesitation, said, "Alright guys. Breach your way in."

He was about to leave the room, but turned around after recalling the Joker's prescense. He was still strapped in the chair and made no attempts to escape.

"You ever play russian roulette with a fully loaded gun?" asked Damien.

Joker raised his head up in bewilderment. "Why would I do that?"

It was a rethoric question. No answer could have changed what he was about to do. None of what he said could have stopped Damien from pointing the .357 held tight in his hand to the Joker's head. And not even Batman could have prevented the bullet in the chamber from tranquilizing the Joker once and for all.

Buckham was the first man in to lead the A Team offensive. There were a total of two teams in the ten man army divided into even fives. Team A planted a satchel charge from the back wall and stormed every cell block from there on out with the intent of clipping every "patient" that was present. The group consisted of Buckham, Pretty Allie, and three of the SWAT personnels bought by Damien.

Team B was led by Dru and Haley followed by the remaining three tactical teams storming in from the front entrance in order to ensure that no survivors passed the asylum alive.

Everything that was Jack Napier was now a dead clown strapped on a metal chair. Damien observed his corpse with a dark pleasure. The Joker's death in itself symbolized a mark for change. For so long has this maniac plagued the streets that his name was the one thing that people could never rub their mind off of. Now he would be forgotten much like everything else that was eased to exist. Families, friends, spouses, all have been avenged. Just a few more minutes worth of genocide, and the world would go back to the way it should be.

Damien walked out of the room and into the main hall of Arkham as he now heard a shrill of mental patients crying in agony following a bark of gunshot to bring about silence. Under Damien's strict orders, the guards and staff workers were simply neutralized by tazers and in Dru's case, a crushing blow on the head, none of them were to be killed.

The millionaire ceased his movements and listened attentatively at the apocalypse he had just started. Criminals from all around the building screamed for mercy and demanded justice. Their pleas were ignored and they faced their death penalty as deserved. This was the beautiful justice of Damien Crest.

Inglund Haley was ravished by the rattle of his gunshot as he deposited fresh bullets into his moving targets. He kicked every cell door open and fired blindly at the room with an automatic MP5 in his arms. Being trapped in their tiny rooms with no place to hide, the inmates had a high chance of being shot by even a blind person as long as he pointed inside the room.

One thing haunted him however. As he broke into room 104, he was baffled to realize that it was the first one of all the rooms to have been empty. What scared him more was that the room was indeed occupied by a patient as indicated by the asylum charts. A man who went by the name of Jonathan Crane was meant to be quartered in that very room yet for some odd reason he was nowhere to be found.

Dru had already killed close to 20 patients singlehandedly with his katana. The blade was drenched in bloodstains fuming into his nostrils. It helped him numb his mind from his failure at killing Batman, all the ruthless slaughter was making him feel godly once more.

But it wasn't complete. The only thing he wanted more dearly than anything else in the world was another fight against Batman. The disgrace had nearly brought him to suicide. But he understood that it wasn't the way he was taught in the league of shadows. "If you give up because of failure, only then have you truly failed." That was one of his elder master's sayings that he had grown to respect and relish. He had even made a silent prayer for another chance to prove himself. Dru had learned from his mistakes and managed to pick up some techniques based on his last encounter with Batman that he would most definitely put to use if they were to ever meet again.

25 kills later, all the lights in Arkham asylum died with no warning.

Dru's prayers had been answered.

'This was it,' thought Damien. It was even as Jack had put it. "The dark is his friend and your enemy." A few seconds ago Arkham was lit from every nook to cranny, now there was nothing to see but darkness itself. Damien held his revolver close to his chest.

Inglund couldn't stay calm. He knew that the Batman was here, but he couldn't see where. The SWAT men behind were completely oblivious to the matter.

"What the hell?" one of them thought aloud.

Haley turned around and ordered, "Shut up." Then he spoke into a walkie talkie planted on his shoulder. "Guys the Bat is here. Nightvision goggles on."

Neutralizing Batman would be something completely new to the crooked SWAT teams who had before fought on his side. It wasn't something that they taught at the academy, so the only hope they had of success was the experience of criminals. That was Buchkam and his men. They only prayed that it would be suffice to do the job.

B Team was making slow and careful steps forward in the asylum hallways. Dru was in the front gripping the handle of his blade calmly yet shook uncontrollably of anxiety on the inside. He wasn't supplied with goggles because he didn't need them. Being an apprentice at the League of Shadows he had acquired the skills to see flawlessly in the dark.

Suddenly, a loud series of high pitched shrills flooded the asylum.

"What the hell is that?" one of the team members wondered.

Dru stood silently still and ordered the men to do the same. Haley tried to keep his automatic faced at the direction of the noise, but it came from all around them. This was bad.

Suddenly, the noise grew abherently louder and a series of objects invisible due to the darkness brushed past the mercenaries and their tactic teams. Panicked, every man fired their weapons at the tiny objects. Nobody could figure out what was happening, what it was that they were feeling flying past them, and how it managed to author the high pitched noise. It was a haunting mystery to everyone except Dru.

Dru had not so much as moved a muscle. The thing that had been giving his comrades a hard time was nothing more than just a stock of bats flying about in the asylum as if they had somehow been summonded there. It was just a diversion and Dru knew it, but decided to say nothing. The inexperienced men behind him would serve as his own piece of bait to lure out his enemy.

A Team was just as confused as B. Even more so because Dru wasn't in their company. The nightvision did little to help because the creatures had been moving so fast, and there was only so much clarity the goggles could provide. But Buckham was a smart tactician, smart enough to know that anything that wasn't stomping on them right now was only meant to pave a path for it.

"Hold your fire!" he ordered twice, once to his teammates and another to the B Team whose gunfires echoed throughout the halls.

Allie wasn't scared, the sounds of gunfire didn't touch her pulse one bit. After all she was a demolitions expert, noise came with the property.

Fredrich Stumps stood two men in front of the entire team. His eyes were focused up front to where Allie and Buckham were looking, trying to find the slightest trace of their intruder.

"Aaagghh!" came from behind. Fredrich turned around to investigate the matter. His green nightvision goggles caught his partner Ellie, but the man behind him, Jax, was nowhere in sight.

"What the hell happened?" Fredrich asked Ellie who now looked as if he had seen a ghost. He blurted out a series of gibberish and pointed up at the ceiling. Fredrich's heart started to throb louder and faster. He slowly raised his head at a ninety degree angle and witnessed a horror. A creature blurry had his hands cupped from backwards on the walls and his body enormous in size nearly flashing. Fredrich's heart pounded uncontrollably now, his blood was flowing faster than a lightning strike. With all his agility, he brought his gun up towards to ceiling as fast as he could. But without warning his nightvision goggles had failed, everything else became dark again.

"Aaaaahh!"

B Team heard the screams transmitted in their walkie talkies. If it wasn't already too late for the first offensive, they were in trouble. Buckham's entire squard including him could have been neutralized, and if that was the case then B Team was next on the list.

"Buckham!" Inglund yelled at the walkie talkie. He waited patiently for three seconds, there was no reply. "Buckham!" he tried again. Still no response. He was angry, but managed to compose himself by taking long deep breaths. "We head to the front exit. And make sure your nightvision stays on," ordered Haley. "Stick close."

Slowly but surely, B Team had made it to the dark abbandoned lobby of the asylum intact. The front door was all their last obstacle. Haley and his new allies stuck close together almost touching each other throughout the movement. Dru walked in front in a leader position making sure the path was safe.

Haley's eyes shined bright like a star upon seeing their way out. He broke into a sprint preparing his body to slam the door with his shoulders.

"Don't!" came Dru, but only too late. Before Haley could have gone to even touch the door a giant sized net fell on top of him and the weights attached to the edges brought enough strength to pull him down on the ground.

For only a couple of seconds could the men in nightvision goggles see their comrade trapped like an animal, because afterwards the goggles had simply died out rendering the men with guns helpless to all the blows they were to face afterwards.

The miniature EMP charge performed a lot better than Batman had anticipated them to. The small weapon nearly as big as a current day cellular phone was able to squeeze in his utility harness with ease. He was thankful for deciding to try it out on the battlefield. Things would not have gone as easily as they had if he left them behind.

Batman socked individually each of the three remaining men clump together. After he was done with them they fell down in a pile on top of one another unconscious. Batman raised his head up to meet the last man who was coincidentally the same swordman he had earlier encountered a few days ago. This time the bladed foe took no chances. He swung the heavy sword across the sides, Batman delivered a frontflip that not dodged the swing, but landed him right behind the warrior. As he prepared his wrist for a backward blow, Dru had already anticipated such an attack and took no time to turn his head around and instead motioned the blade pointing on a left straff of his sides. He sunk it deep behind but the razor's edge stabbed at nothing but the bare wind.

Dru turned around to observe Batman's location, almost startled to see a black fist launching at his face. He shifted his head from the hit, and now being able to clearly spot Batman's chest, the mercenary swung his blade once more across the sides of his foe's stomach.

With his metal armband, Batman intercepted the blade and held his hand in a steady place so as to hold the sword away from another swing.

Enraged, Dru motioned to pull back the sword through his hilt but it was jammed in place. He shifted his head and thought to prepare for a fist attack, but Batman came first.

A loud pound smashed the mercenary on the face and he was on the verge of unconsciousness. But he was wide awake even more so now than before. The hit left a temporary migraine that was unshakable, he would have to manage for the duration of his consciousness.

Batman took no mind to the fact that this enemy had endured one of the most painful hits ever thrown. Instead he composed himself to try and finish him.

Dru despite being fast was unable to land a single stab at the buoyant enemy. He propelled swings after swings but none of it came any closer to hitting him than the last. His impatience grew and out of a foolish flinch, he made the one last move that had given himself to his enemy.

Dru tried to land a straight kick on Batman's chest. Upon seeing this, Batman countered by shifting to a right shaft, ducking and tripping him down on the ground with a swift kick on the standing leg.

He had slammed on the hard cement floor with an abundance of pain but still managed to stay awake.

Batman came close to him to bring about a change to that. But suddenly a single gunfire shot was blared from behind. Only half a second after, Batman felt a piercing convulson straight in his back that cut through the biweave armor and flew straight in his flesh.

"Aaaggh!" he screamed unable to sustain the searing burn. Only moments after another loud racket was followed by another bullet in the back before Batman could even think about evasion.

"You should have stayed at home," suggested the man behind carrying the voice of Damien Crest. He stood where he was with his aim focused on Batman knowing that close combat was out of the equation even if his target was helpless. "I hope you know, this isn't personal," was his way of saying goodbye. Damien thumbed down on the hammer of his .357.

His hands though weak, were now his only chance of survival. Batman dug them into his utility harness shivering uncontrollably and fished out a canister of smoke gas. With all the power he could muster, he broke the canister on the floor and with no further due, it emmitted a sensation of black smoke blinded the lobby.

Automatically, Damien coughed for a breath of fresh air. He walked out of the lobby doors without even thinking, without even pondering about the Batman or his whereabouts. His head was feeling light and he needed air to cool down the moisture that was now clouding his mind.

Once past the lobby doors, he got the breath of fresh that he wanted and he was clear from the smoke. Only now he had walked straight into a different problem.

"Freeze hands up! Put the weapon down!"

There were policemen dressed in blue everywhere standing behind their parked cars which had been flashing red and blue sirens amiably. All were armed with a weapon most of them semiautomatic handguns. Most of the men present had even worn the new expensive kevlar armor he had recently purchased for them. He stood still looking across the crowd until he saw the easily recognizable face of Jim Gordon armed with a cold stare.

With a smile across his face, Damien had complied with the order. There was nothing to do anymore, this wasn't worth dying for. Besides, he would be walk out a free man before sunrise.


	13. Wrongdoings

**Wrongdoings**

**Wayne Manor, Gotham City**

**2:04 a.m, November 22 **

The Tumbler veered away from control and crashed on the crevasse wall upon Bruce's return to the cave. He slid himself out but was too drained on energy to carry on. The bullets lodged in his back were burning him alive and there was nothing he could do about it.

"Alfred!" he screamed at the top of his lungs. Alfred had already been on his way ever since he felt the Tumbler discharge a slight tremor underneath the manor. He arrived just in time clad in his night pajamas.

"Master Wayne," he shook Bruce who was now fading into a deep sleep. "Master Wayne." His eyes widened in horror as he watched the young man too young to die slip into a fade. "Oh dear," he thought aloud. This couldn't be happening. "Master Wayne," he called once more hoping for any signs of life. There was none. Teardrops ran down his cheeks as he stared terrified at the thought of losing the child. "You stupid boy," slipped out of his mouth, slurred by his crying. Bruce Wayne unlike his father was always involving himself in all kinds of dangerous endeavors as if he was trying to prove something to himself. And as Batman, things had only gotten worse. He would come back every night from his playfield with bruises and scratches all around his body, and like any loving father, Alfred would always be there to help ease those pains no matter what, even if the child had become unworthy of it.

Worth was a meaningless term to Thomas and Martha Wayne. If nothing else, the current inhabitants of their home had carried on that trait.

Alfred recalled his silent predictions that this day would come. It was a nightmare that usually kept him awake at nights in the past. As the years had passed however, he had grown to be more acceptable to Bruce's cause. He began to trust the child with his own activities and time passing deeds, hoping to himself that soon he would grow old of his games and finally come inside to rest. Little did he realize that once a child, always a child.

His duty had always been to ensure the safety of everything that carried the name of Thomas Wayne, especially his son. In this morning approaching day, already he had failed.

With flinching hands, Alfred unbuckled Bruces' armor slowy piece by piece, realizing blood stains on the back part of his suit. Expecting the injury point to be on his back, Alfred turned his ward behind and caught a visual image of his inner demon.

Two bullets had pierced Bruce only a few inches away from the spine. Blood was pouring from the holes at a rather rapid speed. "Oh my God," he gasped. Immediately, he grabbed a white cloth and exerted pressure on the leaking point to stop the bleeding. It would buy him some time. Hopefully all the time he needed.

With time running against him, Alfred rushed into Thomas Wayne's room, picked up a black medical bag and ran back. Bruce was lying still just as he had left him.

Alfred had gained much experience in medical repairs from his time served as a medic in combat. He recieved three medals of honor for personally saving the lives of his fellow soldiers in a live battlefield; the list including four corporals and two commanders. He had become an inspiration and a role model for the medical teams who were had by then grown in awe of his loyal and selfless achievements.

The only problem now was that it was all in the past. The proper procedures he had taken in saving the lives of gunshot victims were now blurry and for the most part forgotten. Alfred Pennyworth who was once known by his commanding officers as "The angel's touch" recalled near as much about surgery as known by the common oaf. He knew that he couldn't call an ambulance, it would only raise suspicion. And if suspicions were to escalate by even the smallest inch, it would only be a matter of time until Batman would be known to the entire world. For that he would never forgive himself. And as a result, his only hope in saving the child and keeping his promise was to force his mind into bringing back the past.

A rifle bullet had lodged itself into colonel Cummings straight into his stomach. The eventual loss of blood and energy rendered him speechless and unconscious. He was sure to die. Then, the sight of two medics carrying emergency equipment had come to his rescue.

"Get the stethoscope," Alfred ordered Leslie, a rookie medic who had been assigned the task of following any medical officers in need of assistance. Leslie turned sharply and stripsearched his green army bag. Upon finding it, he passed it on to Alfred who waited with a hand stretched out.

When it landed on his palm, he accepted it and held the tip on the injured soldier. "He's still breathing. We need to get the bullet out of him." Alfred reached on his knees and the rookie did the same. Following on instinct, Leslie pulled out a piece of cloth and forced pressure deep into the bleed spot. Alfred reached into the army bag and pulled out a pair of graspers and a thin sharp incision tool. He gave the rookie a sinciere expression and told him that, "Alright. We need to get the bullet out before things can get any worse. Put the stethoscope on and listen closely. If anything goes unsual in his beats tell me."

Alfred passed ownership of the stethoscope and once his rookie was ready, he held the scalpel tightly and made a lined cut straight down on his patient's wound.

There was nobody else around to assist him in the emergency surgery. He would have to hold onto the stethoscope on one hand and perform the incision cut with another. With precise dexterity, he marked a horizontal line down his patient with the scalpel and listened attentatively into the stethoscope. Bruce's heart was still beating, but barely. The wound seemed to be eating him away faster than it normally should. It took six seconds, then suddenly...

"Alfred his beat's going down!" shouted a panicked Leslie.

"Oh God. Please no."

Heavy amounts of blood was leaking from his back and his beats were losing rhythm. There was no turning back now. If he bandaged Bruce without taking the risk of pulling the bullet, the lead would slowly poison him to death. He went forward with the surgery.

"Are you sure about this?"

"It's the only choice we have," replied Alfred. Keep your ears on his beat. I'm going to get it out."

With parts of the patient's body unfolded, it became much easier to spot the copper round. Using the graspers, he hooked tightly onto the bullet which had stapled itself onto the patient. He counted to three seconds silently in his head, then with all the strength he could summon he yanked it straight out.

"He's going down," warned the rookie. "Patch him back up."

From the black bag, Alfred was not at all surprised to find the proper stitching equipment he needed.

The colonel was sewed up of his injuries. Lines of blood were leaking from the stitch.

Leslie reported, "His beat's stopped."

No! Master Wayne was not going to die. Not like this.

He pressed down on Bruce with his bare hands to exert pressure. 'C'mon,' he prayed silently, waiting to hear another beat from his heart.

With the fear of failure in his mind, Alfred asked nothing of the colonel's beat. Instead he sat silently, his hand still forcing pressure, anxious for even a glimmer of hope.

"I'm sorry," gloomed the rookie. "I wish it didn't have to end like this."

A minute had passed, and Alfred said nothing. He let go of the warm corpse who was now dead for sure, and his empty hand had absorbed an aura of lifeless stale air. The colonel was a respected man among friends and family. He was also one of the few greatest patriots to ever live. A charismatic leader, war hero, this man singlehandedly brought smiles to a thousand frowning soldiers. Rumor had it that he was to be promoted soon, now all it is is a rumor. His entire life and acomplishments were gone in the blink of an eye, dreams taken from him. For Alfred's failure, colonel Cummings would never be able to go back home and lead the life he had dreamed of. A legenday hero fallen because one fool had failed to do his part.

"I've failed," he reminded himself. Light teardrops raced down across his cheeks and fell headfirst on the wet muddy ground. He turned to the rookie for acknowledgment, but noticed that he hadn't paid a single mind to what was said. Instead, Leslie held onto the earpiece of the stethoscope and unwillingly summoned a bright smirk across his face.

"His heart is beating," he reported.

"Oh yes!" he cried. Bruce Wayne was alive. Alfred proclaimed in joy for he had once more lived up to his promise. Thomas Wayne would have been proud.

**Arkham Asylum, Gotham City**

**3:05 a.m**

Arkham was now a genocide slaughterhouse. Of all the horrors that presided in the institution, this was without question the worst. Patients, some on the brink of rehabilitation, some not, were all murdered in the same cold blood. There were no redemptions at Arkham, every soul was gone. The only things that remained of them were they're lifeless corpses. The air was stale and cold with blood already beggining to rot. A swarm of flies and mosquitoes had already found their way into the asylum feeding off the dead.

This was a nightmare come true to Jim Gordon. He and only a few willing police officers were able to stomach going inside for further investigation. All the others volunteered to wait outside.

Jim walked around the crime scene careful not to catch any bloodstains on his shoes. He had a handkerchief on his mouth to suppress as much of the vile stench as he could. It only helped slightly.

"Commisioner," called a man running towards him from behind. Jim turned around.

"Commisioner," the man continued. "We have a problem. I think you'd better follow me."

The man led Jim into a tiny room dimly lit. There was a chair stapled on the center of the room with straps on the armrests and the legs. Bloodstains inked the chair, but a body was missing.

"What's this?" asked Jim.

"The blood on the chair matches Jack Napier's. He isn't anywhere in the asylum to be seen."

This in itself was another nightmare. All this bloodshed and it still didn't change a thing. In fact it only made it worse. "We have a missing convict?"

"Well actually. Two sir."

**Gotham City Police Department, Gotham City**

**3:25 a.m **

Damien sat perfectly relaxed in the interrogation room. It wouldn't be long from now until he and his men were finally cleared of all charges against them. The rules of the jungle had a way of being funny at times. Punishment came as a price only if you didn't have the fine to pay. In this case, that fine was money, establishment, and the support of a lot of powerful friends.

He could already picture the scene inside his head. A detective would enter the room and introduce himself by saying the words "Let's talk." The detective would go on for seven minutes ranting about how much prison time Damien was going to face and how the men he kept company with have already started talking about making deals for a less painful jail time. Damien would stay seated where he was and not mention a single word throughout. After that seven minute time period, the police would recieve a call from the governor's office if not the mayors. The detective will be ordered to stand down, and that Damien was to walk out of the police department unscathed.

After that happens, Damien had a few other moves that needed to be executed. Moves that would not have been otherwise reachable had he not attained his new earned power. Arkham was only a half of what needed to be done. The other half was to rid himself of any opposition. On top of the list already was Jim Gordon, and the Batman.

The door opened and a tall skinny caucasian male invited himself in holding a brown folder in his hand and a cup of coffee on the other. He shut the door behind and walked towards Damien.

"Let's talk."


	14. New Regime

**A New Regime**

**Wayne Manor, Gotham City**

**1:49 p.m, November 25**

It was begining to be a while too long before Bruce Wayne opened his eyebrows. When he suddenly felt the urge, conscienceness awoke him.

He was wearing nothing but a pair of underwear, a large blanket on top of his body, and a soft mattress on his back, which he presumed to be his bed without giving a moments thought. The ceiling on top was a familiar view. It was the first thing his eyes would catch every morning that he got up from bed. On the near left was a porch window staring straight into the sun. The glistening light forced him out. He felt dizzy and uncertain of himself. Before he rubbed his face, the world was a blur.

A man in a black tuxedo walked in with a tray of bread and omelet and placed the food on his bed.

"How long have I been out?" He asked the humble servant.

He smiled, satisfied to see him alive and well once more. "Too long sir."

Bruce smiled back in alleviation. 'It's good to see you too.' He ducked down to the tray of food, but noticed that something was missing.

It was always in custom for Bruce Wayne to spend the first part of his days catching up on the news, especially after having been at rest for such a seemingly long time. Even though it wasn't proper for a young man fit and stable as himself to be reading and eating on the bed, Alfred found ways of making exceptions.

"Alfred, where's the morning news?"

At that moment the butler's gracious smile had condensed into a guise of concern.

"Sir. I don't think that now is a proper time to inspect on current matters. After all you just woke up, you should give your head a re..."

"What is wrong?" Bruce cut off.

Alfred pointed his head down and let out a sigh. He left the room in silence only to return with the morning's paper just as requested.

Bruce held the paper in front of him, and as if a ghost had appeared, he watched in abhorrence. All it took to change his contented mood to a frenzy of infuriation were five words printed in bold on the front page. "Crest to reassign police force."

"Alfred. I'm going to need to call Luscious for a new suit."

"Sir. I've already done that for you."

**Gotham Toy Factory, Gotham City**

**3:02 p.m**

The factory had been abandonned for almost ten years now. There weren't enough charitable people in the high up places in the city to keep it running. To those that mattered it became an economic liability.

Initially it had started as a factory producing custom made toys and shipping them out on holidays to orphanages or homeless shelters in Gotham as charity. Unfortunately they costed the city an honest penny. And crooked politicians weren't ones to give honest pennies. Only a few months after the new election, Gotham Toy Factory had shut down. The kings grew larger pockets.

Now the factory served as a safe haven for the escaped Jack Napier.

Here he read the newspaper alone devising and planning out for yet another long awaited strike.

"Where o where shall the Joker make his next joke?" he asked to himself aloud.

The man's picture on the front page caught his eye.

"Aha! You. Damien Crest. That's your name," he fingured the picture. "Whatever it is I'm planning. You are on my list of invitations. You and that brimstone Batman. Oh I'll get you my friend. For what you've done to me. The bullet still stuck inside me, eating my soul. You thought that would kill me didn't you? Well you thought wrong. I'm alive strong and well. And remember this my friend. Whatever doesn't kill you can only make you stronger." He bursted out laughing to himself in agonizing misery. "Damien Crest," he repeated. "You will be mine."

**Gotham City Police Department, Gotham City**

**7:35 p.m **

"You've been gone for a few days," reminded Jim. Batman replied with a simple nod.

"Look. We have to change this. There has to be something we should do. This guy can't rule the entire damn police force. I can't believe any of this is happening. None of this should even be able to happen. Goddamn it, it isn't the way we should run things in Gotham."

"We can still make a diff..."

For the second time their meet was interrupted by the same man who singlehandedly destroyed Gotham's reputation. "What, a difference?" he cut in.

Jim turned and met the man face to face with steam passing through his ears. "You bastard. I'm going to make sure you pay for all this hell you've caused. I'm a police commisioner, believe me when I say that you have just made the wrong enemy."

Damien Crest was acompanied by three fellow police officers standing behind him. "Yes, I feared as much. You have been nothing less than insubordinate and uncooperative. It is therefore in my authorization to strip you of your position in the police force. Pack your things and move on with life. You're removal is effective immediately."

Upon hearing the news, Jim Gordon in the blink of an eye went through a wide variety of emotions. He wanted to punch Damien but knew that his conscience would never allow it. And there was a large gaping hole inside his mind, luxuriant with betrayal. Damien wasn't kidding, and even if he was it would have taken less than an hour for the mayor's office to make it a fact. Honesty had become close to a myth to Gotham City, at least in the eyes of Jim Gordon.

Abashed, he took sharp breaths trying to control himself under the current situation. Damien Crest looked at him with a tone of impatience, as if expecting the man to leave the building. Jim, unable to sustain himself, did.

"And as for you," said Damien Crest to a stiff standing Batman. "You so much as show your face anywhere else and your name will be on top of America's Most Wanted. I can make you the most hunted fugitive in all of America. Cops no longer need your help. Don't you ever come back."

Batman, with fiery eyes, grew tempted to knock him off the rooftop. The cops standing behind Damien had their hands placed on their holsters, ready to draw at any time. These were the same people Batman was trying to help, and now they seemed willing to shoot him down if he made a single opposing move.

"I won't stand by and let this happen," said Batman. Before Damien could respond, Batman threw himself up high into the air and in an instant dropped down like an atomic bomb stretching two legs out to the three guards before they could pull their guns into the air. They each fell on their back and struggled scabrously to get up. Damien hid a hand under his coat but was never able to pull it back out. Batman leaped towards him and his body weight dropped the man's chest brought him down in an instant. While Damien was on the floor, Batman grabbed him by his coat and rose his body close.

"You have just made the wrong enemy."

He dropped him down and threw himself off the roof. From that point on, he was nowhere to be found.

The cops who were only now up on their feet with guns drawn, surveyed for any trace of Batman.

"Leave it," said Damien, pointing a palm out to them and fixing his silk tie with a fee hand. "Let's just hope he tries that again. Now, take out that searchlight and make sure it stays gone."


	15. A Blast

**A Blast**

**Gotham City Police Department, Gotham City**

**2:34 p.m, November 27th **

Some mourned the loss of commisioner Jim Gordon. For the few of those in the force who knew him, they knew he would find no peace. Not after this unjust punishment. His pension was cut off under Damien's strict orders and he was given only a day to clear his office. With the blink of an eye his authortity and everything else that went with it was stripped apart. That day was only yesterday, and by now the name of Jim Gordon is only a memory to them. Only the few who worked in the police department for several years under direct command of Jim Gordon understood what was being taken from them. The majority workers of the Gotham Police Department had already grown accustomed to Damien Crest, and they supported him with unbreakable honor. He, with all the money he invested into the police, made them feel appreciated. It made being an honest cop a whole lot easier. And with the additional supply of top grade armor and insurance plan, only a displeased few could find reason to hate their new boss.

Their top inducement against Crest was the Arkham massacre that he along with others, was to be blamed for. He betrayed everything that Jim Gordon had once inspired among the struggling people of Gotham. Jim Gordon showed hope for people, a possiblity at advancement without shifting the golden rules an inch from its table. In the eyes of many, this made the city seem as if an innocent little child trying to gather himself from a tumble. Under Damien's authority, the golden rules were thrown off the table. There was no hope, no reconciliation, most importantly, no leniancy. Criminals were to be punished, but with different grasps. Ever since Damien led the police, there have been more arrest related deaths among potential convicted criminals such as rapists and murderers. People eventually grew to understand this new direction, and cops with lots of steam to let out, took great pleasure in it.

Damien sat in Jim's old office chair, silently, resting his eyes. The phone rang, and Damien broke from his repose and answered it.

"Yes?" he asked.

"She's here," answered Damien's new assistant.

"Excellent," he replied. "Send her in."

As he dropped the phone down, he was somehow reminded of Dina. His new assistant was a man by the name of Arlen Mays who was a Gotham citizen currently in his midtwenties. Unlike Dina, he was not as experienced, therefore not as beneficial. And unlike Dina, he didn't understand Damien. Friends were a luxury he seemed too ashamed to ask for. She was the only one in his life to ever understand that. In fact they both understood each other, which was really the only reason they got along so well in the first place.

He knew clearly that she never would have supported what he was doing. Her absense from the world was the only reason he made it happen. She, much like the previous Jim Gordon, shared that same compromising viewpoint. They would risk the lives of others just to hold onto even a glimmer of hope. This isn't the way she would have wanted things, but as of now she was gone. And finally Damien was free to do as he pleased.

Two consecutive taps hit the office door.

"Come in," ordered Damien.

As the door opened, a redheaded caucasian woman in her thirties wearing glasses clad in a linen suit, cotton shirt and a dotted silk tie.

"Hello," introduced Damien, offering a hand. "My name is Damien Crest. And you are...?"

She took the hand and shook it gently. "Ellen Yindel."

**Wayne Manor, Gotham City**

**4:43 p.m **

In only a minute from now Damien was scheduled to give a live speech to the people of Gotham City. Bruce sat close to the television with the remote hanging on his palm. His mind was not at ease. This new man of authority was going to make things much more complicated than they had to be. But if he thought for one second that Batman was going to stop he was wrong. The dark knight would continue as he always did in the past, whether the law is for him or against him. He would not stop, never. Not unless death caught him first.

But things would be much more complicated. Jim Gordon, the greatest asset to Batman, was no longer in office. Somehow he always feared that once that day would come. One day when they became old and too weak to continue on, Batman and his ally would have to finally rest. This was not the day. No matter what the reporters, despots or politicians had to say, this was not that day.

After a minute passed, Damien walked in front of a podium set right outside the police department and showed his face to the cameras.

"Good day to you all," he said to the microphone. A round of applause from the reporters and attendants in the scene drowned his voice. In due time they stopped and let the man continue his speech. "I have done all I can to help this city. I am proud to say that crime rates have gone down up to 50. This is truly a remarkable victory," he declares with a smile. "You have all won. This was all thanks to your efforts. Congradulate yourselves! You have won!" A second round of applause took place for a total of seven estimated seconds. "And I am proud to introduce to you our new police commisioner Ellen Yindel," he turned to the redhead woman sitting behind him. She got up, shook Damien's hand and cleared her throat upon reaching the podium.

"I am very greatful for this opportunity," she said with little to no expression of emotion. "I will do all I can within my power to ensure Gotham's security from criminal threats. My main announcement though is that as of this moment the vigilante known by some as Batman is no longer to show his face again. The police no longer want the interruption of this masked maniac. We in the police now have all the things we need to ensure that our people, our children, can walk on the streets free and not have a worry in the world. Batman is behind us now along with all the trouble he has caused us. Now we look forward and into the eyes of progression. People, believe me when I say that Gotham will one day become what it always should have been. This will happen not a century from now, forty years from now, or even twenty. This will happen sooner than any of us can know it. And to get there we need effort. People of Gotham City we need you now more than ever. If you can help us, go to work, stay in schools, support us in this proper way, I gurantee you a change. The law is much more strict now, we will no longer sit idly by and tolerate these heinous acts to happen. We will be swift with justice. Our enemies will falter and the day that we clear our streets of its plague ladies and gentlemen, that day we will look back and praise the lord for this choice that we have made. Thank you everyone."

**Gotham City Toy Factory, Gotham City**

**4:52 p.m **

The television wasn't getting a good reception. Every few minutes or so the screen would blur out and feed static. Jack Napier got up and smacked the set on its head, and miraculously, the picture was perfect.

Damien came on screen again for closing after the newly appointed police commisioner gave her speech.

"I hope I don't have to remind you citizens of Gotham that the day after tommorow is the celebration of Saint Arcadia. We will be having our customary parades in the streets and lots more fun. Please, show up and help show your community spirit."

That was when Jack got his idea.

"Oh I'll show you my community spirit," he said to the screen. "Count me in Crest, as long as you're there too. Things should be a blast my friend and so will you."


	16. Foreshadow

**White House, Washington DC**

**1:21 p.m, November 28**

The sky above was clear and showed no shades of grey in the present clouds. Lex peered from his window out into the sunny green fields of the White House. The only distractions to the setting involved two men clad in black suits and an earpiece, blue tie, black shades, and a pair of expensive black leather shoes. The view would have been quite exquisite were it not for their disruptive prescence on the field. It would have been best if they just simply left. Besides, it wasn't like their being there could actually do anything to make him any safer than he already was. Nobody kills the president in his own home.

"We've had our little differences in the past," came Lex, losing no focus on the window. In the room accompanying him was an old friend turned reporter for the Daily Planet.

Clark Kent stood perfectly still, staring at Lex's back with his thick 14 centimeter wide glasses. He said nothing.

Lex after shortly realizing the silence, decided to go on.

"I'm not going to lie to you Clark. I still have those old feelings. I'm guessing as do you."

The silent treatment he got in return implied a nod of approval.

"You see the news?" he asked, turning his head to the corner of his desk for only a glance. Placed neatly on top was the November 28 newspaper. Printed in its usual black and white on the front page was a new story about Gotham City. "Batman to turn edge", read the title marked in a dark bold font.

"What about it?" Clark went ahead and asked.

"This guy there. Damien Crest. I like what he's been doing. If you flipped through the business pages, you'd know that he actually is turning things in Gotham."

"Why are you telling me?" Was Clark's way of asking, "Where do I fit in?"

Lex was glad he asked. It made the truth so much easier.

"Your friend. I know that he is going to try and face Damien. Turn against him. For reasons you should know. This Gotham friend of yours wants to keep showing his pathetic face around the public eye. And he isn't doing things right. He is going to make a complete mess of things."

Batman was no friend of Clark Kent or his identity underneath. Batman was simply a fammiliar. Neither of them blended well together. The dark knight was always doing things a little too off the charts. To him there were no restrictions beside the basic ones. He was just an enraged creature trying to share his misery with the rest of the world. And for once in his life, Clark mused at the fact that for once they shared something in common.

"This Batman...might even try and kill him," accused Lex.

Clark moved not an inch, and puffed lightly at the idea. That was an abhorent thing to say, even more to believe.

"He isn't like that," he assured Lex. "We have our differences. But he isn't like that. Commiting such an act for him would be failure for everything he has worked for."

"But you have killed in the past Kent. And you would do it if it were necessary...would you not?"

To this Clark thought before he spoke.

"I will do what is necessary. If he goes out of hand, I will try and talk with him."

"And if he ignores?" Lex pushed on.

Clark said nothing for a few moments. Then, "I will do what is necessary."

Lex turned his back around and faced Clark. He took a few steps forward on the carpet room to where Clark was standing.

"Thank you for your cooperation Clark. I really do hope we meet again later on much better terms."


	17. The Good, The Bad, The Ugly

**Crest Residence, Gotham City**

**10:33 p.m, November 29**

The party in the Crest residence had so far been a blast. Many important guests from all over the city including actors and other kinds of celebrities made a show with some friends they brought along with them. Steady lights illuminated brightly throughout the Crest Manor halls and living rooms. The Saint Arcadia celebration was already poving to be a great success.

His four mercenaries were here even, all dressed in black tuxedos to fit in with the crowd. Though they were dressed to party, it wasn't what they were here for. As of tonight, these men were being paid to watch over the crowds for any potential assassins.

Allie had carefully hidden several C4 explosive packages on the front yard, as well as the roofs and other areas that Damien would not come across during the duration of the evening. Damien had his suspicions that Batman might even drop in uninvited. If that were to ever happen, the men were meant to be prepared.

Crest shared conversations with several of the guests who were already talking amongst themselves. He did as much as he could to keep his mind off Batman. For the special function he was clad in a black Zurgoni suit, a silk tie that matched his coat perfectly, and a pair of expensive Gurami black leather shoes that were only recently repolished.

"So what do you think of stem cell research?" asked on of the guests. He was a rather popular plastic surgeon from Stanford University with the name Bill Zullinger. His ties with popular celebrities were followed by his job. He was 42 years of age, and lived in a condo not far from the city itself with several mistresses of his own.

"Well," Damien took a sip of his Hennessy brand Cognac. "Tell me what you think. Should a guy be armless for the rest of his life simply because some old religious fart who lives in a church thinks so?"

Damien recieved mixed comments for his reply. From among some of the men, he was commended and praised, while some of the few women who were bound by their husbands showed signs of distaste and utter repugnance.

"That is not a nice thing to say Damien," came one of the housewives dressed in a sky blue dress, a pair of shoes and a handbag that matched the color of their dress perfectly. On her were three necklaces and an an earing on each ear composed of diamonds. Her husband, the man around her arms, told her in whisper to shut up, but she simply pulled away from him and moved closer to Damien.

"Hey," she called him. "That was a cowardly thing for a coward like you to say."

Damien kept a smile on his face and tried his best not to lash out in public.

"You are a catholic?" he presumed.

"Yes."

Damien looked at her face and saw something about her that simply bothered him. She displayed no sense of independance or any level of sophistication. The jwelry around her face told him that. She was reliant on men, and forever expected to be. She was the complete opposite of Dina.

"No wonder," he concluded and walked away from her in silence. She scoffed, but was silenced by her husband who took her in his arms and told her quietly not to embarass him, and that she could cost him his job if she continued mouthing off. She kept to herself.

He walked to the bar counter and ordered another Cognac. He sipped it, and decided to stay at the bar among the nameless crowd.

Someone must have told a hilarious joke because only a few seconds after, some man from among the guests started laughing incoherently, his voice stood out from among the rest. Seconds passed by, and now the guests were staring at him in a perturbed manner. He seemed to be unable to stop, and he kept on getting louder and louder. Some of the bandmembers playing at the party took a pause because of the interruption, and stood up to have a look. The man kept going on. One nearby audience informed him publicly to leave the building until he felt well, but the man went ignored. The man continued cracking up and showed no signs of stopping until he abruptly hit the ground on his head and died.

Nearby guests surveyed the man and several asked themselves aloud, "Is he dead?" "What was wrong with him?" They stared at him, almost as if studying him, except their eyes were cold with fear.

Soon after, another person from among the crowd started laughing maniacally. Then a woman, and another. Laughter filled the Crest residence.

Buckham noticed the irregular laughs of the crowd and knew immediately that something was terribly wrong. The guests surrounding him excluding his three mates were for some odd reason laughing their heads off seeming no end. Bucham pulled his Colt from under his tuxedo as did his men. He held it low in two hands and started walking around the crowds looking for anyone who might stand out. Some of the guests noticed the gun and even pointed at it, but they went on ahead cracking themselves up.

"Sir," Buckham called for Damien.

Damien, who still sat in the counter of his residence, was only now begining to grasp the horror of what was going on. Even the bartender who was standing in front of him, had something to laugh about. And in front of him laying on the counter he noticed something that he hadn't noticed before. A playing card laid on its back. He flipped it on its face, and the card was a joker.

"God dammit," he gasped and unsheathed a black Desert Eagle. Looking at the bartender who had no other reaction to his weapon than a loud crazy laugh, Damien aimed the barrel at him and pulled the trigger.

"Buckham! You can see these people! I want you to kill them all! Grab the guns in my office and finish every single one of them!"

Damien couldn't see the man or his crew, but knew he heard him. Because a few moments after he ordered Buckham, repetitive gunfire from a few MP5's blared across the halls. Soon all the guests were dead on the floor, except Damien and the four men acompanying him.

"What the hell caused all of this?" Inglund thought aloud. Nobody answered. To everyone else it seemed obvious enough.

The flat screen television hooked onto the center of the room, which had been on the entire night was only now audible due to the dead silence that filled the room.

Damien peered at the screen and noticed a familliar face. A smiling face that could have been the only cause of this nightmare.

The news reporter for the local Gotham News was scared out of his mind. The camera broadcasted a live report on a terrible occurence down at Elverson Street. Vehicles lined up on the straight road were blazing with orange fire. A man in a purple suit was the only prescence among these vehicles, one hand holding a basket full of unlit molotov cocktails and the other an old World War 2 fully automatic MP40. As he shot blindly into the air, bursts of hot ammunition lit the gun's barrel with a light that lasted for as long as he squeezed the trigger. A collection of dead bodies lay on the sidewalks, some searing with blood, some with fire dancing on their backs.

Jim Belush was just as afraid as his cameraman to do the report so they kept their distance as far away from the scene as possible without missing out on anything.

"Reporter James Belush here speaking to you the public on something horrible going on here in Elverson Street." He blocked out his emotions with much success and was able to report casually despite the situation. It was the first time he had ever seen a dead body in his life, so being on the frontlines of the scene made him feel uneasy and mentally disturbed.

"It appears that "The Joker", or Jack Napier as is his real name, previously escaped from the Arkham Asylum once more and has now caused yet another massacre here on Elverson Street. Cars are on fire, along with..." He stopped himself after taking another glance at a corpse. It was a two year old child lying motionless on the cold streets of Gotham. Its tiny body was clothed in a little T shirt that just matched its size, a pair of long jeans, and small tennis shoes. "Along with innocent victims. There are people lying on the streets, some lit on fire, some just sprayed with bullets. There are tons of dead civillians here Gotham. It ranges from children as small as two years old to adults of any age. God this is a nightmare", he wished he hadn't said. The thirty year old pacifist reporter was losing his cool.

"When are the police coming here? is the question that we should be asking. Where are they in this time of great need? And most importantly, is that dark knight hero going to ever show his face again? Is Gotham truly safe without his prescense?"

James Belush could no longer hold back. Gotham, a city in constant trouble, constant run-ins with tragedy, and constant misery, was never going to be safe again if their hero could no longer protect them. He dropped tears on the ground, making no effort to wipe it off his face. He lifted his head faced into the camera and pleaded, "Where is he? I'snt he coming?"

Those would have to suffice as his final words. His report was cut short by a pale-skinned homicidal maniac who found the reporter and his cameraman only too soon. "Ha ha ha ha ha ha" the maniac's

voice echoed before the live video feed to the city went dead.

**Wayne Manor, Gotham City**

**10:48 p.m**

Bruce Wayne much like his father was a man of strong determination. There was little difference between the two only that their times were different and so were their methods. But neither men turned their backs on their loved ones. If their entire legacy had to die in the name of protecting a single harmless citizen from danger, they would glady trade their lives. Bruce had never betrayed his father or the ideals that he held so dearly, and he was not going to start tonight.

Even if a man as ruthless and powerful as Damien wasn't going to stop it. Not on terms. He was just a man after all, and nothing more. He would be nothing more than yet another obstacle on the field.

But Damien was a powerful man possibly even capable of destroying Bruce completely. And no matter what he managed to convinced himself of day after day, Damien was not just an obstacle. As of now he was a defining moment.

**Elverson Road, Gotham City**

**11:02 p.m **

Inglund placed himself on the ledge of a rooftop of an old restaurant just on top of the Elverson Road. His eyes were focused on the reticule, which caught a pale skinned criminal straight in its sight. Because the scene was bleak, the mercenary had to adjust a nightvision lens on his sniper's scope which emmitted a visible light of green coloring his view.

"Do you have the target on sight?" crackled the radio standing on the ledge beside him. He grabbed the Motorola and spoke into it.

"Affirmitive."

"Fire when ready," came Buckham.

Inglund inhaled two breaths of air. "Roger. Over and out."

He kept The Joker on sight despite his constant prancing on the roads and over his dead victims. Inglund once having the perfect aim for a headshot, put his index finger on the trigger. He kept his sniper rifle steady and motionless, then slowly pulled back the trigger.

But suddenly he lost sight of the target. Bright flashes of light circled around The Joker followed by smoke. The light transferred into Inglund's nightvision goggles spewed out a blinding white flash of light into direct contact with his eyes.

"Aaah!" shouted the man. He rubbed his eyes with his hands and unknowingly moved his legs away from the ledge of the roof. Inglund walked backwards still blind by the flash on his eyes. Suddenly, his back came into contact with a rigid obstacle. 'A wall,' was his initial thought. But as he turned around, he was proven wrong.

"Holy hell," he whispered. "Not you." Then his voice grew louder. "Not youuuu!"

Damien waited in the van with Buckham. They both caught the last response on Inglund's radio.

"Damn. It's him," Damien thought aloud. Buckham needed no clarification.

"Get them both down. Kill him and Napier."

Dru walked up the stairs leading into the rooftop with a sharpened blade in hand. This time for sure he was going to get Batman.

A swift kick on the rooftop entrance door sent it ajar. There was a man there waiting as if he had been expecting him. He had horns on his head, a pitch dark body, and a black crusader's cape that covered the mid section of his torso to the bottom of his body. Dru touched the tip of his blade lightly, it was sharp enough.

"You're still here?" asked Batman in a manner blunt and expressionless that it seemed as a statement and not a question.

The ninja made no verbal response. He raised his arms high into the air and held it that way, clutching tightly onto his katana.

Batman unsheathed his hands from under his cape and placed them seven inches east from his head. In his grip was a hilt with a blade more curved and slightly longer than Dru's katana hanging in the air. The sword was an ancient Japanese Tachi. A silver polished sword with 78 centimeters in blade length.

Dru gave no warning. Immediately he sprinted towards Batman with every bit of confidence in him to finally get the job done. Upon reaching the blade's radius, Batman used his offensive weapon to deflect Drus incoming swing. He did so successfully three times before deciding to take his turn. Batman swung 45 degrees down but his enemy managed to strafe away on the left. While Batman was retrieving back his arms Dru threw a powerful slice that had enough strength and agility to have finished him off had his sword not been there to avert the assail. But Batman though able to stop the slash suffered a strong resistance on his grip. The hit nearly sent him straight off balance. However, Dru sent a second and a third assail on Batman, both of which did send him off balance.

The ninja was much more skilled in the use of a sword. If Batman wanted any edge against him, he would have to change the rules.

Batman was forced into taking backwards steps until he arrived at the roof ledge. He peered down for half a second and returned back focus to the resilient swordsman, continuing his defensive stance for as long as he could. For every four swings he managed to deflect, he made two of his own, all of which the swordsman had little trouble dispersing. Things were not looking favorably for the dark knight.

The fumes broadcasted to the Joker brought forth a pleasant warmth. But he forgot the feeling not so long ago, as that fammiliar feeling of cold and emptiness once more surfaced in his blood. He was still unsure of the sender of the pack of flares around him, but had his idea. He eyed the rooftops observantly but saw nothing to his satisfaction.

Suddenly, he heard something light and small roll towards him. At first he dismissed the thought thinking it to be a diversion of some sort, but curiosity eventually got the good of him. He turned his head to the location of the sound, and caught sight of a green oval shaped grenade with a pin missing.

"Oh shit!" He turned around to ensue a sprint, but the grenade went off too soon for any of his movements to have mattered. A discharge of shrapnel pellets burst open and the psychomaniac who prided himself for all the different colors he wore was now engulfed in the bright yellow color of flame.

Allie got up from her cover which was one a yellow taxi cab placed on the left lane of Elverson Road. She held her Berretta in front of her in case anything wrong was to occur. Slowly but surely, she took a few steps around the taxi cab and searched for the body of The Joker. To her surprise, he wasn't where he was only a few seconds ago prior to when she threw the grenade. This alone sent shivers down her spine. But the man couldn't have gone far. The grenade was too close to have allowed him to live. It just wasn't possible. Survival was just not possible.

She took a few more cautionary steps from the roads and toward the sidewalk. Allie came across corpses everywhere, all of which began to emmit a rotting sensation. She held her breath and tried to breathe in as least as possible. Then she came upon a corpse that struck a ring. Though not much could be seen of the body due in part to the fact that it was turned on its back still burning fresh, Allie could make out bits of the purple coat which was a fammilliar trademark of Jack. It was the only thing of The Joker that remained the most intact. The face, hair, legs and arms were completely burned black. Allie felt relieved after confirming The Joker's death.

She turned around to head back. Allie gave one last look at the roasting Joker and commented, "Cook well you green psychotic bitch," and delivered a powerful kick at the burning body. It turned on its front and the flames shifted their position.

But there was one revealed detail from the body that she managed to catch only now. Allie's eyes widened in horror.

The man with the purple coat had a golden ring that remained intact on his burned finger. Jack Napier never wore a ring. Not tonight at least when he was shooting up Elverson Road. Jack Napier was still alive.

Allie gasped and made an effort to raise back her gun to shoulder length. But her arms were forced down by a presense that had without warning showed clear from behind. She struggled to move but had no success. The arm that held her hands down was now wrapped around her entire body.

The man behind her was incandescent and torrid. Smoke rised off from his whole body into the cold air.

"Oh I'll cook well my dear," he whispered into Allie's ear. "Don't you worry about that." He let go of his right arm and held her with his left. Before she had the chance to make any other move, Joker snatched the Beretta away from her and pointed the tip of the gun on her head. "Cook well my pretty". Without any remorse or a moment of hesitation, Joker pulled the trigger. Gunfire barked loud right in front of her ear, and sent her to the long sleep.

Jack dropped her lifeless body down on the ground and didn't look back. He surveyed the building rooftops surounding him for any sign of The Batman.

And there he was. On the ledge on top of the closed restaurant. Except at the moment he seemed distracted. There was someone else already on the scene.

Dru was close to having his success. If this kept going on the way it did, victory would be inevitable.

Batman, realizing that his sword was of no use against the master swordsman, took a few steps back and lunged it at his enemy. Dru dodged the heavy steel and ran towards his adversary to make perfect use of his given opportunity.

Batman with his hand on his utility harness and stood perfectly still. Dru motioned himself for a direct stab on the chest and referred all his strength to his arms. When he got close enough, he propelled the blade forward to the dark knight.

The dark knight made a strafe move away from the stab and allowed the ninja to stubbornly deliver himself to him. When he approached close enough, Batman slapped him on the face with a glass vial of chloroform on his palm. The dose was just about strong enough to put down a tiger. It would no doubt put the mercenary out for a while.

Dru took in the chemical unaware of what it was, and suddenly lost his will to fight. His mind lost focus and the world around him turned into a mysterious motion blur. He stopped from fighting and sheepishly moved about with no predictable pattern. Soon after, he fell face down on the ground benumbed, unable to make another move.

Batman looked down on Elverson Road to determine if Jack was still down. From the view, it seemed like he was long gone already.

"Damn," he whispered to himself.

Footstps approached in tremendous speed from behind. "Damn is right you bastard." Batman rotated himself to catch the man charging at him. It was the chief mercenary running towards him with an eight inch long combat knife at hand. "I'll kill you you bastard!" Batman grabbed his knife arm with one hand and his chest with another. He mustered enough strength to fend him off, knocking him out would not be a difficult task.

Unfortunately two loud gunshots took that chance away from him. Buckham was hit twice from behind, the bullets never left his body. "Oh God..." He fell down from Batman's hold and died.

Batman raised his head and met the eyes of The Joker. He decided not to move as of yet for The Joker had a Beretta pointed straight at his face.

"Ha ha. I knew you'd come. I knew believe me that you would never quit." Joker kept the weapon aimed at Batman and strolled towards him.

"People like you and me oh hoh hoh. We never stop what we do. No crazy maniac with a gun ordering us around stops us from doing what it is we do. Damien Crest can't stop us, but he'll sure as hell try. But you know what, in the end, we all win. Every single one of our kind. We beat all the rest of society Batman. That is why we're even alive and why we have the potential to rule the world. Crest is a fool, even you agree. He is trying to persecute us all. Kill everything that makes Gotham."

"You're not what makes Gotham!" declared Batman.

But Joker went on. "My friend. I make up Gotham just as much as you make Gotham. We are all part of the same team whether you admit it or not. To Gotham, to Damien, to all the people living all across the country. It's a good thing you're still around."

"I will stop you once and for all Jack," promised Batman.

Jack puffed. "How many times do you think I have heard that same speech coming from you? I'll tell you. Too many times that I lost my count. You say that, you promise that, and yet here I am. Here I walk in the fringes of society free to cause whatever kinds of hell that pleases my most darkest desires."

"Does that include another bullet on the head?" interrupted a voice coming from behind. Damien entered the scene with a black coated Desert Eagle pointed at The Joker's head.

"Ahhh, our little friend Damien Crest," welcomed Joker. "I am so glad that you could finally join us. You see, The Batman and I were just talking about how much of a disruption you have been for us and how much we would love to see you wiped off the map."

Damien snickered. "I'm sure you two would love that. But you see right now I have the gun. And besides, you honestly think that it will end with me? Without me, Gotham has no way of getting at progression. You two clouns and all the other freaks that are.." he cut himself off. "Were" he announced proudly, "At Arkham Asylum have done nothing but cost us lives and money."

"Damien," came Batman. "This isn't the way that things should be. You have just destroyed every little image of hope and redemption that there ever was in Gotham. You've turned the city into a tyranny under your rule."

"And look at all the good things that I have managed to do with that. If I had the power to slaughter every single person holed up in prison I would. And Gotham would be a much happier and acomplished place. I am doing what is right for the people. I am moving them forward."

"You'll never convince me of that."

"Well I don't have to."

"Batman," Joker called out. "Together, lets kill him. We can do it easy. And no one will have to know."

"No." Batman rejected the idea without even considering it.

"I won't tell anyone," Joker insisted. "We won't tell anyone. You and I both know that he is here to destroy both of us. We are allies in this thing fighting people like him. Together, you and me, together we can win this war as allies."

Batman shifted his head to The Joker. "No".

A dissapointed Jack Napier scoffed. "Well then I guess I'll just have to do this entire thing all by myself."

Without wasting a second, Joker pulled the trigger still aimed at Batman. The bullet sent a straight shot into his chest, slowed down but not prevented by his kevlar biweave armor plating.

Damien fearing that he would inevitably be Joker's next target, emptied an entire round on the clown before he could fire a single shot at him.

Batman was on the ground, struggling to get up. Damien replaced his empty magazine with a fresh load and made his way to the still living Batman.

Batman couldn't find the strength to move himself off the ground. The bullet lodged inside him was burning hard and all the more draining his blood. As he saw the man in black, he felt completely helpless. Damien won the battle. The only thing left to do was to accept it. Gotham City would be torn apart from everything that it should have been and human morality would be nothing more than a liability. Crimes against humanity would become a thing of the past. Batman was going to die.

Damien raised the weapon.

Bruce closed his eyes with no more qualms or arguments. Destiny was approaching, and it finally made sense.

He cocked the hammer.

This would be a good way to die.

"I'm glad that things ended this way," said Damien. He took in a breath of air and smiled at the thought. Everything would go the way he wanted, and all he had to do was kill off one more obstacle. Damien squeezed the trigger. 'After this,' he mused. 'Everything will go just right. Goodnight friend.'

But Jack Napier suddenly got up and grabbed Damien by the coat and dragged his body away.

"If I don't get my dreams, neither do you."

Jack brought them closer to the ledge of the rooftop. Each men wrestled each other to break free. Jack shoved Damien off his chest for a second and managed to get his legs past the ledge of the roof. It was victory shortlived, for Damien grabbed the man on his arm and pulled him down with him. They both shared the fall.

Batman, shivering, reached into his radio and dialed for Alfred.

"Alfred," he transmitted. "Get me out of here. And I'll need a medic."

The month was nearly out. Just one more day to go. Everything was going to change for Bruce, for Gotham, and for everyone in it. Bruce took his short earned rest. Things would only get harder from here on out.


	18. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

**Daily Planet, Metropolis**

**3:21 p.m, November 31**

Clark Kent browsed through the days newspaper all the more taking a sip of his dark coffee. He hadn't been able to keep his mind straight for days now. He thought deeply about what Lex had to say to him, and what he swore he would do if that ever happened. Nothing was going right at the moment.

"Damn Bruce," he thought aloud. "Just what the hell is your problem?" A question to which he perfectly knew the answer to.

If Damien Crest was so much as abused by the dark knight hero, U.S president Lex Luthor would be willing to do everything in his power to take him down. Crest could not be harmed no matter what. Bruce knew that, or at least he should. But even if he did understand the ultimatums and backlashes that could occur as a result of his prescense, he would never take the sacrifices. He would blame it on the world around him and live his life based on how he thought the world should be. Bruce Wayne would ultimately force the world into seeing things his way. That was the problem. That was why everyone at the league opposed his guts. Too many pointless disagreements ensued because of his attitude problem. That was why he left them.

Clark turned to the second page and noticed a piece that caused his eyes to widen. "Crest dead. Batman reclaims his rightful throne." 'No. No this can't be. No!' But it was true. The month had ended in the only way that it could have. The oppressive tyrant Bruce Wayne had singlehandedly ruined everything for the city that he tried so hard to protect.

'This isn't going to pass with Lex. This isn't going to pass with the league. This is going to be bad. You have just destroyed everything Bruce. Dammit Bruce! You've done it all wrong!'

Then Clark remembered his promise to Lex on the day he visited the White House. 'I will do all that is necessary.'

The only question now was, would he?

'Bruce, you damb fool.'

The days were going to be dark after this. Eventually, Clark was going to have to meet Bruce once again. Only this time it wouldn't be on neutral terms.


End file.
